Better Off Forgotten
by Delancey654
Summary: The Light side won the battle but lost the war. By Ministry decree, all Mudbloods have been Obliviated and "repatriated" to the Muggle world. When Draco Malfoy seeks out Hermione Granger, he wants only one thing . . . but gets far more. HG/DM, KB/MF, CC/TN.
1. Chapter 1: The Last Muggle-born Witch

**A/N: This work is rated M for language and adult themes. This story has been written as a transformative work for fun rather than profit. All recognizable characters belong to JKR.**

**_June 1999_**

Hermione Granger walked through the grey, institutional corridors of the Ministry of Magic for the last time, accompanied by a grim-faced Minerva McGonagall. It was only fitting that the witch who had welcomed her to the wizarding world as a wide-eyed child would witness her exit as a young woman.

A sidelong glance showed that her former teacher's stride was typically brisk and her posture unrelentingly straight, but the lines of worry and grief carved into Professor McGonagall's face had only grown deeper in the thirteen months since the supposedly Last Battle. They had all been so naive, trusting that Harry's defeat of Voldemort would inevitably result in a storybook ending, with the defeated Death Eaters incarcerated in Azkaban and Kingsley Shacklebolt leading the Ministry into an enlightened era of tolerance.

Instead, the Death Eaters had quickly regrouped. Unlike the Order, which had been devastated at the Battle of Hogwarts and before by the deaths of senior leaders and strategists like Remus Lupin, Alastor Moody, and Dumbledore himself, the Death Eaters were objectively better off without a megalomaniac like Voldemort and his partner in insanity, Bellatrix.

Under the leadership of Lucius Malfoy, those bearing the Dark Mark not only managed to avoid Azkaban but also solidified the political power of the old pureblood families. The Death Eaters had begun mere weeks after the final battle with a seemingly innocuous public relations campaign to convince the wizarding world that they should not be held liable for crimes committed under duress or while under the Imperius curse.

Hermione had nearly gagged on her morning pumpkin juice when she opened the _Daily Prophet_ on a warm summer morning to a sycophantic full-page article, written by Rita Skeeter, detailing the pressures imposed on Draco Malfoy by the Dark Lord. The smirking photo above the fold completed the process of putting Hermione off her breakfast, even though Harry confirmed the _Prophet _had - for once - accurately recounted the facts. The next month, _Witch Weekly_, in addition to a rumor that the newlywed Ginny Potter was pregnant with the Chosen One's child, featured a sympathetic interview with Narcissa Malfoy. Hermione could not help but notice how both articles highlighted Voldemort's Muggle father, while ironically describing Harry, the son of a wizard and a witch, as the pureblood savior of the wizarding world.

As she and Minerva made their way to a conference room tucked between Muggle Affairs and the Obliviation department, Hermione reflected, with a deep and bitter sadness, that Harry would have made a difference, standing up and fighting against darkness and prejudice as he had done for his entire short life. Harry, however, collapsed just after his eighteenth birthday, and it soon became evident that the two killing curses he sustained had a belated effect equivalent to widespread, incurable cancer throughout his body.

Harry lingered through Hermione's nineteenth birthday, celebrated in a muted fashion at his room in Saint Mungo's. It was there, with his emerald eyes dulled to jade by pain and potions, that her best friend asked her to be the godmother to the son he would never meet and extracted a promise. "I don't like what's going on at the Ministry, with that hag Umbridge reinstated and the Wizengamot handing out pardons to Death Eaters like candy. If they start going after Muggle-borns again, don't stick around. Maybe go and join your parents in Australia, but I need to know you'll keep yourself safe." Hermione promised, soothingly, and Harry had drifted off to sleep on that reassurance.

Harry was right to be worried. Thuggish Death Eaters like MacNair and Rowle remained at large and had stepped up their attacks on Muggleborns and members of the Order of the Phoenix. Just the week before, Cho Chang had been snatched from Hogsmeade in broad daylight and dumped three days later - naked, battered, and Obliviated - at the base of Knockturn Alley.

On the political front, well-connected Death Eaters pushed their lobbying efforts within the Ministry of Magic. A new law codified the pure-blood status of the offspring of a wizard and witch, a measure that was tremendously popular with the half-blooded majority and made this critical swing group increasingly indifferent to discrimination against those who were Muggle-born.

Within days of Harry's magnificent funeral, the elder Theodore Nott, a prominent solicitor, brought a formal petition seeking the "repatriation" of Muggle-borns before the Wizengamot. The Nott petition contended that the removal of the group that had twice been the catalyst for Voldemort's violence would safeguard wizarding Britain and prevent the rise of another Dark Lord.

Progressive members of the Wizengamot and sympathetic Ministry officials like Arthur Weasley fiercely opposed this last measure. For months, there was a stalemate at the Ministry, even as Kingsley Shacklebolt came under increasing pressure due to terrorist attacks carried out by Death Eaters who remained at large. As the attacks became more frequent and deadly, public opinion increasingly favored Lucius Malfoy's offer to broker a treaty whereby all former Death Eaters would take a wizarding oath to keep the peace in exchange for full pardons and the Obliviation and exile of all Muggle-born witches and wizards.

At Yuletide, on the heels of a magical bombing in Diagon Alley that left eleven dead, Kingsley agreed to come to the bargaining table with the Death Eaters. Hermione, furious at the Minister's capitulation, had fumed to her former head of house that Kingsley was not exhibiting the courage one would expect of a Gryffindor. Minerva's tart response shocked her at the time. "He was in Slytherin, Miss Granger, and you should be glad of it. He'll negotiate better terms than you or I could." Now, six months after that heated conversation, Hermione could grudgingly admit her professor had been correct.

Instead of a wizarding oath, which could be easily circumvented and might not apply in the Muggle world, Shacklebolt had insisted on an Unbreakable Vow from every person branded with the Dark Mark, making each a guarantor for the safety of an exiled witch or wizard. It was a clever move, giving each of the Death Eaters, all of whom had a demonstrable talent for self-preservation, a vested interest in the well-being of at least one Muggle-born. And while Voldemort's followers would have preferred to dump the Obliviated exiles into Muggle society, homeless, wandless, and with nothing more than the clothes on their backs, the Minister extracted reparations of 1000 galleons per year lived in the magical world, payable by the Death Eaters. Lucius had readily consented to the Ministry's offer, stipulating only that the Death Eaters select the one or two Mudbloods each would be responsible for.

Hermione, who was being kept apprised of the negotiations by Kingsley, thought it was a sad commentary on wizarding Britain that the number of Muggle-borns was only slightly greater than the number of Death Eaters, but was not especially surprised. Muggle-born witches and wizards were rare (she, Dean Thomas and Justin Finch-Fletchley had been the only three in their year at Hogwarts) and had been targeted for extermination in two wars, after all.

What did surprise her was eagerness of most Muggle-borns to give up their magic for safety and a few thousand Galleons. When Hermione researched further, she was shocked to realize why. Only a few of the adults were employed by the Ministry of Magic, generally considered the most prestigious employer, and all of those were working in a clerical or menial capacity. Most Muggle-borns eked out a living working for more liberal half-bloods - as a seamstress for Madame Malkin, a shop assistant at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, a cook at the Three Broomsticks, and the like. Many had been captured by Snatchers and subjected to a stint in Azkaban for "stealing" a wand. Any prominent, successful Muggle-borns from the older generations - Dirk Cresswell, Lily Evans, Ted Tonks - were dead. As much as Hermione hated to admit it, the survivors' willingness to take a Death Eater-sponsored buyout made a horrible sort of sense.

The Wizengamot ratified the treaty as its first order of business in 1999. Two days later, Lucius presented Shacklebolt with a list of forty-two Muggle-borns matched with three dozen Death Eaters. Predictably, Hermione's name headed the list, paired with Draco Malfoy. Everyone knew that Malfoys accepted nothing but the best, and there was no better Mudblood than the Gryffindor princess.

Kingsley braced himself for Hermione's Howler, an official protest lodged with the Wizengamot, or even for an angry young witch storming his office and refusing to entrust her life to any member of a family whose very name was a byword for bad faith. However, he received nothing other than the Ministry's form, executed by Hermione, and a brief note requesting that her Obliviation be scheduled for early summer to allow her to attend the christening of the Potter baby.

Hermione's uncharacteristic acquiescence had everything to do with a letter delivered to her by a self-important eagle owl the same day that Shacklebolt received the list. The letter itself was a short but polite note from Narcissa Malfoy stating that her son, unlike any other Death Eater, would be willing to extend the Ministry-approved protective Unbreakable Vow (one that Hermione, Professor McGonagall and ghostly Professor Binns had painstakingly crafted to eliminate any loopholes) to Hermione's blood relations. Narcissa concluded her letter with a graceful sentence expressing her belief in the importance of family, one that she had every expectation Hermione shared. The clincher was the enclosed clipping from a weekly paper serving the northern suburbs of Brisbane, advertising Wilkins Dentistry LLC.

Having made the necessary arrangements with Narcissa, Hermione put her remaining months in the wizarding world to good use. She studied and sat for her NEWTs, despite Ron's certainty that she was mental. She liked to think that her exam results would serve as a two-fingered salute to those who preached pureblood supremacy.

Hermione also meticulously planned for life as a Muggle. Kingsley had pledged the Ministry's resources to create Muggle identities and histories for exiled witches and wizards, so Hermione found her OWLs magically transformed into A levels and admission to the university of her choice assured. With her own arrangements finalized, Hermione found herself acting as an informal consultant to Kingsley, helping to create cover stories for other Muggle-borns. The middle-aged and older witches and wizards would be enjoying an early retirement in pleasant locations scattered throughout the United Kingdom, with the Death Eaters' payments explained away as lottery winnings, employer buyouts, or an inheritance from a long-lost relative. Hermione's Muggle-born classmates would be attending university or enrolled in vocational training, with the youngest of the exiles returning to secondary school. She had done her best to give everyone the credentials they would had if their Hogwarts owls had never arrived. Despite her disapproval of the repatriation policy, Hermione knew she had done a much better job easing the transition than any Ministry employee.

Still, she was taken aback in February when Katie Bell asked Hermione to Obliviate her. The Muggle-borns had the right to select their Bonder and who would Obliviate them, but the Ministry's professionals were the obvious choice. Obliviation was tricky, dangerous magic, but Katie was insistent. "I trust you much more than anyone who works for the Ministry. Besides, you're brilliant at it. You Know Who himself couldn't break your memory charms." Hermione couldn't imagine how Katie had come by that classified information, but she reluctantly agreed. Katie had been anxious to the point of nausea and Marcus Flint had glowered at Hermione the entire time (presumably the side effect of a Vow that would kill him if he allowed any harm to come to Katie), but the Obliviation had gone smoothly.

After that, Hermione agreed to Obliviate Dennis Creevey, a little brunette Gryffindor third-year she knew only by sight, a Muggleborn couple in their fifties, and Dean Thomas. Dean, however, had been able to stay in the wizarding world after her research proved he was a half-blood whose wizard father had been killed during the First Wizarding War. As for the rest, she hoped they were all doing well in the Muggle world, but had no way of knowing other than that their Death Eaters hadn't yet dropped dead.

Between February and May, forty witches and wizards had been "repatriated" into the Muggle world, stripped of all memories of their magic. Hermione was now the last Muggle-born witch in Britain.

As they reached the conference room, Hermione hesitated. If all went according to plan, in a few short hours she would be found on the verge of a country lane in Wiltshire with a mangled bicycle a few feet away, the apparent victim of a hit-and-run driver. Hermione wasn't afraid of what came after that - she had spent the majority of her life as a Muggle, after all. What frightened her was the prospect of being Apparated away from the Ministry, unconscious and completely helpless, to Malfoy Manor, in order for someone (probably a house elf) to arrange the accident scene just beyond the Manor's boundary wards. She didn't trust any of the Malfoys and could only hope they hadn't found a way to slither around the Vow.

Hermione took deep breath to compose herself, but let it out softly when she caught Professor McGonagall's sympathetic eyes. Her teacher placed a detaining hand on her arm as Hermione reached for the doorknob. Professor McGonagall's brogue was thick in an effort to choke back her emotions. "In nearly fifty years of teaching, I have never been more proud of a student. I planned to offer you an apprenticeship at Hogwarts, but the Ministry's current policy . . . . " She stopped and shook her head. "I will miss you, my dear, and our world's loss is the Muggle world's gain."

Hermione smiled at her favorite professor as they both blinked back tears. "I'm ready," she told her, and was proud that her voice did not waver. She opened the door and began to walk through, but stopped abruptly at the threshold at the unexpected and unwelcome face inside.


	2. Chapter 2: The Vow

**A/N: Thanks to those who left a review (Annaea3077, catsgotmytongue, guppylovesshoes, shaymars, CheshyreGrin, karou104, Colubrina & guest) or added this as a favorite/follow. Glad you all think the premise is interesting and the story is off to a good beginning! As we left off last time, Hermione had opened the door to a person she hoped to never see again. Nope, it's not Malfoy . . . **

"Hem-hem! How pleasant to see you both again, and on such a _delightful _occasion!" A gloating grin split Dolores Umbridge's toad-like face.

Professor McGonagall looked down her nose at the gushing, pink-clad witch. "'Delightful' is not the term I would choose. 'Distasteful' or 'despicable' both strike me as more appropriate. May I ask what _you_ are doing here, Dolores?" she asked, nostrils flaring.

"I am here, Minerva, in my role as head of the Muggle-Born Repatriation Commission to witness Miss Granger's departure. Such a momentous occasion, as we finally rid ourselves of the last usurper of magic!"

Unbridge turned to Hermione and addressed her with poisonous sweetness. "You must be _so_ looking forward to being reunited with your Muggle parents. Such a pity that the Ministry was unable to approve your request for an international Portkey to visit them in Australia."

"It is indeed a pity," Hermione stated flatly, meeting the other witch's eyes and hoping that her loathing was apparent. Even if Bellatrix had survived the Final Battle, Umbridge still might have won a contest as the witch Hermione hated most. Prohibiting Hermione from retrieving her parents and restoring their memories, horrible as it was, did not even rank among her worst offenses. Hermione viciously regretted that Dumbledore had rescued Umbridge from the centaur herd in the Forbidden Forest.

She looked past the odious woman to the four individuals already seated at the conference table. Lucius Malfoy paid her no heed, too busy watching the ongoing verbal sparring match between Umbridge and Professor McGonagall with a characteristic, calculating expression. Draco's bright blond head was angled towards a young, dark-haired witch as they engaged in a whispered conversation. Hermione vaguely recognized Astoria Greengrass from Hogwarts and more recent press coverage of the so-called "wedding of the year," which Narcissa Malfoy had pulled together in a tellingly short period of time. Narcissa was the only one to acknowledge her, with an infinitesimal nod; Hermione wondered if the elegant blonde had second thoughts about their bargain.

That subtle movement of his mother's head caught the younger Malfoy's attention and he raised an eyebrow in Hermione's direction. "Granger," he drawled, in the supercilious tone that never failed to annoy. "I expected you to arrive with a full entourage of impoverished gingers. Where are they? Didn't the Weasel King want to get in one last sloppy kiss?"

With an effort, and a reminder to herself that her dentist parents would be horrified, Hermione refrained from gritting her teeth. She had known that undertaking an Unbreakable Vow would require some level of interaction with the blond Ferret, but she had forgotten just how obnoxious he could be.

"We all said our good-byes privately at the Burrow last night," she informed Malfoy in an even tone.

"Ron and I saw no need to make a public spectacle of our relationship," Hermione continued, with a pointed glance at Astoria clinging to Malfoy's arm. She would be damned before she would admit to him that she and Ron had been on the outs since the Nott petition became law. Ron had been her first love, and it still stung that he had so quickly and adamantly rejected her suggestion that he could join her in the Muggle world.

Astoria glared at Hermione, dark eyes flashing. "Draco, I don't feel well," she whined, burrowing her head against his shoulder. "There's a smell in this room that's making me sick."

Hermione rolled her eyes at the immaturity of pure-blood insults. Before she could retort, Narcissa intervened with the practiced skill of a society hostess.

"Please forgive my daughter-in-law, Miss Granger. Astoria is expecting an interesting event early next year, and she is particularly sensitive to perfumes and other scents at the moment," she informed Hermione. "I myself do not smell anything offensive."

"I see," Hermione said, hiding her amusement at the older witch's Victorian description of pregnancy. "Congratulations," she offered with as much politeness as she could muster. Personally, she found the custom of pure-blood witches marrying and having babies while still in their teens to be appalling.

Malfoy gave her a small, self-satisfied grin as he absently stroked his wife's hair. "Thanks, Granger."

Astoria gave a soft moan that sounded fake to Hermione's ears. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Your sentiment is much appreciated, Miss Granger," Narcissa said with a gracious smile. She turned her chilly attention to her daughter-in-law. "Astoria, darling, I knew you shouldn't have come this morning in your delicate condition. I'll escort you back to the Manor and have the house elves make you a tisane. Come along." Hermione felt a flicker of sympathy for Astoria as she obediently followed her formidable mother-in-law out of the room.

"As head of the Muggle-Born Repatriation Commission, I have every right - "

"Madam Undersecretary, Headmistress, perhaps we could begin?" Lucius smoothly interrupted Umbridge in the midst of her shrill tirade.

"I'm afraid not, Lucius," Hermione said. "My Bonder hasn't yet arrived."

Lucius regarded her with cold amusement. "My dear girl, I hope you don't expect me to wait on Arthur Weasley or accept him as a Bonder when my son's life is at stake. I'm afraid I must insist on an unbiased, senior Ministry official, so I naturally thought of Dolores."

Umbridge simpered at the praise. Hermione wondered if Astoria's morning sickness might somehow be contagious, given the nauseated expressions on Professor McGonagall's face, not to mention her own.

Hermione faced Lucius squarely. She had helped Harry fight him and other Death Eaters at the Ministry when she was only sixteen, and she refused to be intimidated now.

"I have never had any expectations where you or your family are concerned, Lucius. You'll be pleased to know that I've selected a Bonder who is not a Weasley and who is senior to Undersecretary Umbridge."

Punctuating her words, a silvery lynx raced into the room. Its jaws opened and it spoke in Kingsley Shacklebolt's deep voice. "Be there in a moment, Hermione."

"Surely, Lucius, you have no objection to the Minister of Magic serving as our Bonder?"

It was a petty triumph, but Hermione enjoyed the brief flash of anger that crossed the elder Malfoy's face before Lucius resumed his typical urbane mask. "No one could object to our esteemed Minister as a Bonder, especially given his role as an architect of the Muggle-born repatriation program."

Hermione compressed her lips. Shacklebolt's acquiescence in furthering the Death Eaters' agenda of bigotry still rankled.

"You flatter me, Lucius. I am merely a cog in the great machine that governs us all," Kingsley stated as he entered the room.

He surveyed the room, nodding and greeting those present. "Minerva, thank you for bringing Miss Granger. While you are here, perhaps you and Lucius should like to confer? Now that he has been reinstated as head of the Hogwarts' Board of Governors, I know he wishes to discuss the upcoming school year with you, specifically the treatment of any incoming students from Muggle families."

"There are none, Minister, as I've previously informed you," Professor McGonagall answered in a tart voice.

Hermione looked down at the floor, wary of any potential Legilemency by Umbridge or either of the Malfoys. One of the concessions she had been able to wring from Kingsley due to his guilty conscience was a promise that all Muggle-borns would be diverted from Hogwarts - and the Ministry's official notice - so long as Obliviation and "repatriation" remained the official policy.

"I should be greatly shocked if the Hogwarts scroll continues to identify thieves with dirty blood as candidates for admission!" Umbridge interjected. "As you know, Minister, the Department of Mysteries has confirmed that magic can only be passed to the next generation when wizards and witches reproduce. Now that all of the noxious weeds have been plucked, beautiful flowers - our magical children - shall be free to bloom!" She bestowed a sickening smile on Malfoy, who looked as revolted as Hermione felt.

"Nonetheless, you and Lucius should work with Headmistress McGonagall to develop a plan should that unlikely contingency arise," Kingsley reiterated in his deep, mellow voice.

"It shan't, Minister," the Headmistress grimly reassured him. That was because the new mission of the Order of the Phoenix was to seek out Muggle-born children and persuade their parents to send them to Beauxbatons, which Madame Maxime had pledged would admit any Muggle-born student from the British Isles, or accept tutoring from one or more Order members. It was a small comfort to Hermione to know that twenty or so years in the future, when her hypothetical future children were of school age, she would meet again with a red-haired Weasley or one of her former professors - even if she wouldn't remember them.

"Kingsley, may we get started?" Hermione asked abruptly. Right now, she was disgusted enough with the vile beliefs of those like Umbridge to _want_ to leave, though she would still have preferred to depart on her own terms.

( ) ( ) ( )

Shacklebolt had truly come into his own as a political animal, Draco thought with no little admiration. The Auror was sharp and subtle as a serpent, particularly when compared to Cornelius Fudge, who had been a bumbling, blustering fixture at the Manor's social events during Draco's early adolescence. Fudge would have been flummoxed by the strong personalities currently occupying the conference room; Shacklebolt had neatly herded his father, McGonagall, and that hag Umbridge into a corner to hash out Hogwarts-related policy, freeing himself to Bond the Unbreakable Vow without distraction.

"Face each other and kneel, please," the Minister directed.

Draco gracefully sank to the floor and smirked when Hermione stumbled slightly. "I take it Weaselbee wasn't able to persuade you to spend much time in that position?"

Granger flushed at the innuendo but quickly shot back. "You seem very comfortable on your knees, Malfoy. Is that the type of service Voldemort demanded from his followers?"

Draco scowled. His interaction with Granger since the Final Battle had been minimal, and he had forgotten what a sharp-tongued bitch she could be.

Shacklebolt interrupted before he could insult Granger again, or be insulted in turn. "Mr. Malfoy, take Miss Granger's wand hand with your own." Draco did as instructed, his left hand gripping her right wrist more firmly than strictly necessary. The witch refused to give him the satisfaction of wincing.

"Not so hard, Mr. Malfoy," the Minister told him with a sardonic smile. "I promise Miss Granger is enough of a Gryffindor that she won't run away."

As he loosened his grip, Draco was close enough to hear Granger's tiny sigh of relief. That soft, deliciously feminine sound reminded him of inappropriate thoughts he had entertained about her over the years. He forced himself to focus on the present task, since breaching the terms of the vows he was about to undertake would kill him.

As soon as Shacklebolt placed the tip of his wand on their linked hands, Granger began, in a low but clear voice.

"Will you, Draco Malfoy, do your best to watch over me in the Muggle world?"

"I will."

It was disturbingly intimate, pledging himself while holding her hand, reminiscent of the vows he had taken with Astoria just a month before. At Draco's words, a thin stream of fire issued from Shacklebolt's wand and wound around theirs wrists.

"Will you, to the best of your ability, protect me from harm?" Granger asked.

"I will."

It was ironic, Draco thought as a second fiery line wrapped around them, that the first two terms echoed the Vow his mother had undertaken with Snape to protect him. At least the third term of _this_ Vow did not require him to commit murder, or indeed do anything at all:

"Will you refrain from taking any action, in either the Muggle or magical world, that would hurt me?"

"I will."

Granger's eyes bored intently into his as a third cord of flame bound them together. They were unexpectedly pretty, Draco realized, flecked with gold and amber and not at all mud-like.

"Will you extend these vows to my blood relatives in the first degree?"

In this respect, their Unbreakable Vow differed from the other forty. Draco's mother had been insistent that he be paired with Granger, and rightfully worried that she would refuse, given that he had tormented her at school and stood by while she was tortured in his home. It had been Narcissa's idea that he offer to protect Granger's parents, too, to ensure her acceptance.

"I will."

"So mote it be," Shacklebolt announced, as a fourth line glowed briefly before fading along with the others, leaving a bracelet-like welt on both of their wrists. As soon as Draco released her hand, Granger rubbed a finger along the pinkish mark.

"It looks like rope burn," she observed, speaking to the Minister rather than to him. "Do you know how quickly it will fade? It could give rise to questions at a Muggle hospital."

"It will disappear within the hour," Shacklebolt promised.

After a few moments of awkward silence, Draco held out his hand, palm up.

"Your wand, Granger." His tense posture belied his casual command.

It was incredibly difficult for a witch or wizard to relinquish their wand. If she was ever going to hex him, it would be now. He had heard from Pansy that Justin Finch-Fletchley had attacked her father and had to be restrained with an Incarcerous before he could be Obliviated. Draco wouldn't have thought the Hufflepoof had it in him, unlike Granger, who hadn't hesitated to slap him in the past and now was a powerful enough witch to do real damage.

She hesitated. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that his father and Umbridge both had their wands out, with Umbridge looking gleeful at the prospect of cursing Granger.

His left wrist began to sting, and Draco realized the Vow was fully operational. "Granger, please give me your wand," he coaxed.

With a pained look, she placed the length of dark wood in his hand. He pocketed it quickly, thankful that she had been using his aunt's walnut wand rather than the vinewood wand that had chosen Granger at age eleven. She never would have surrendered that wand without a fight.

Fortunately, Granger's original wand was residing safely in a desk drawer in his study. He had bought it off a Snatcher for ten Galleons, thinking that it might do for a secondary wand. Much as he hated to admit it, he and the Mudblood had a similar spell-casting style and equally high level of magical ability. But the vinewood wand was as stubborn as its rightful owner and had never given its allegiance to Draco. He was guaranteed to bollocks up even the simplest spells when trying to use it.

Professor McGonagall approached them, wand out. She was the one who would be Obliviating Granger. "Are you ready to begin, Hermione?"

Draco had never known the old termagant to speak so kindly, but Granger always had been one of her Gryffindor pets.

Granger straightened her shoulders. "I am ready, Minerva, but I've changed my mind. I would like Malfoy to Obliviate me."

( ) ( ) ( )

Malfoy had objected, of course. Indeed, his first reaction had been a point-blank refusal. Lucius and Umbridge had backed him up, hissing insults at Hermione until Kingsley pounded the table and restored order.

Professor McGonagall looked hurt, and tried to convince Hermione to revert to the original plan, but she was adamant.

"It's my right to choose who Obliviates me, and I want Malfoy," Hermione insisted. "I know he can do it. He altered the memories of any number of Ministry officials on Voldemort's orders, and he has every incentive to get it right with me."

She had looked directly at the Malfoys, son and father. "I know your preference is to rely on minions," she said, with a twist of her lips, "but if you want something done right, you need to do it yourself. Should anything go wrong with Professor McGonagall, the consequences would be on your head."

The two men had exchanged a long look, and then both nodded, slowly. It was bitterly ironic, thought Hermione, that she could now trust a Malfoy more than her favorite teacher.

Now she was sitting at the conference room table, across from a still-sullen Malfoy. Kingsley had ushered the others out into the hallway, overruling all demands to stay by pointing out that a memory charm required intense concentration. Also, as Kingsley accurately observed, she couldn't overpower Malfoy without her wand and he couldn't possibly harm her, given the terms of the Vow.

Malfoy raised his wand and Hermione braced herself for the almost-soothing pale green light that accompanied an Oblivate. There was some karmic justice in that she had taken and altered her parents' memories without their consent and now would have the same done to her. She closed her eyes, but opened them in a startled reflex when she felt the tip of Malfoy's wand lifting her chin. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Something I think I'll enjoy," was the disconcerting reply.

Cold silver eyes stared into hers, and Hermione reminded herself that he couldn't hurt her.

Malfoy spoke the incantation softly, his voice almost a caress. "_Obliviate_."


	3. Chapter 3: Astoria's Quidditch Team

**A/N: This chapter contains discussion** **of infidelity and fertility problems, including miscarriage. **

**Thank you for all of the enthusiastic reviews of the prologue from Aphrodite-Venus-u.k, EmilyWoods, Shaymars, catsgotmytongue, Matts Miss, sundance 1989, Cheshyre Grin, Colubrina, Grovek26, Clarabell and guests. (Guest 1 - sorry I made you cry, but it was intended to be sad. Guest 2 - your comment on the last two lines is really, really appreciated). Hope everyone continues to enjoy the story!**

**_July 31, 2003_**

So far as Draco was concerned, nothing good had ever happened on Harry Potter's birthday, now a holiday throughout wizarding Britain in honor of the Boy Who Died.

He had joined his parents in serving a very public penance, sitting their arses all morning long in a prominent place on the uncomfortable, temporary stands set up along Diagon Alley. Minister Shacklebolt had given a mercifully brief speech, highlighting post-War reconstruction efforts and entirely avoiding blood-based politics. That was one of several reasons his approval ratings remained high more than five years after taking office.

Draco then had to suffer watching every wanker who had ever shaken Scarhead's hand strut by during the parade, pretending to be a War hero. As the cherry on top, a heavily pregnant Ginny Potter-Thomas had queened it over the crowd lining the Alley as her magically levitated float passed by with the Chosen One's four-year-old son waving shyly. The She-Weasel made it a point to give Draco and Lucius her nastiest look, whispering intensely to her new husband. The dark-skinned wizard had glared as well, clearly still holding a grudge over his time in the Manor's dungeons.

Despite the insult to his family, Astoria had joined the majority of witches present in _oohing _and _aahing _over Potter's brat. She whispered excitedly to Draco that Ginny was expecting twin girls, and, according to _Witch Weekly_, she planned to name them Mione and Minerva. "You know, Draco," she cooed, "our little baby will be in the same year at Hogwarts."

He patted her hand uneasily. His wife's sunny optimism was the polar opposite of his own cold cynicism. "Merlin willing, Astoria. Though I doubt they'll be friends."

Now he and his wife were spending their afternoon at St. Mungo's, waiting interminably in an examination room with chairs that were nearly as hard and unforgiving as the parade stands. Draco was increasingly concerned that his pessimism would be borne out yet again. In his experience, the medical profession always took longer to deliver bad news. The professional, practiced expression of sympathy on the face of the young St. Mungo's medi-witch when she walked into the examination room confirmed that Harry Potter's birthday was not about to become Draco's lucky day, at least not this year.

"Mrs. Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy. I'm so sorry, but our testing shows the pregnancy isn't viable. It appears that fetal development ceased shortly after implantation."

Both of the Malfoys' faces displayed nothing more than a well-bred stoicism. When Astoria had miscarried little Scorpius at seventeen weeks, they had clung to each other and sobbed in the consultation room for hours. Five miscarriages later, Draco had effectively disassociated his wife's pregnancies from the possibility of a healthy baby, numbing himself to the eventual losses. He wasn't certain how Astoria coped.

"Very well," said Astoria, gathering her handbag and rising to her feet. "I shall schedule a follow-up appointment for early autumn."

Draco put a lightly detaining hand on her wrist. "Stay just a moment." As she sat back down, he turned his attention to the medi-witch. "Would use of a donor's sperm increase the chances of a successful outcome?" His voice was even, not reflecting that he felt utterly emasculated at the thought of relying on some other man to sire the next Malfoy heir.

The Healer's eyes strayed briefly to his left arm, but she shook her head. "Your wife's fertility also seems to have been compromised as a consequence of use of Dark magic. It's unfortunately all too common with witches and wizards of our generation."

Draco wasn't surprised. During the Carrows' tenure at Hogwarts, Astoria had positively relished using Unforgivables against her classmates. "Use of a different donor's sperm likely won't change anything," the medi-witch concluded.

Although they weren't touching, Astoria was sitting close enough that Draco felt her stiffen at the Healer's answer and the damning adjective.

"May I see the chart?" he requested with disarming mildness. Healer Clearwater, who he vaguely remembered as a pretty Head Girl when he was thirteen and just beginning to notice witches, passed it over without protest.

Draco read quickly, skimming past medical jargon and data. "Ah," he said, "It seems that my wife relied on a _private_ service to find her sperm donor rather than coming to St. Mungo's." Most likely Astoria had been serviced in an expensive hotel room, some evening while he was working late. "Might that have made a difference?"

The medi-witch shrugged. "I doubt it. Mrs. Malfoy did become pregnant, so the insemination clearly was effective."

With cold fury, Draco imagined his naked wife assuming various sexual positions with another wizard to ensure her adultery was "effective."

"Are there any other options available to us?" It was obvious to Draco that Astoria's inquiry was an attempt to postpone the inevitable confrontation over her infidelity. She already knew the answer to her question: over the last four years, they had discussed every fertility treatment known to wizards and Muggles with the experts at St. Mungo's, and tried most of them.

But Healer Clearwater wasn't their regular medi-witch; she was merely a junior member of the staff who had been stuck working on a public holiday, so she saw nothing unusual about the question. "You can try a Muggle technique called IVF next, but it requires magic-suppressing potions that sharply increase the likelihood that any child born will be a Squib."

Neither of the Malfoys reacted; they were glaring at each other with an intensity that made the Healer swallow uneasily. "Well, I'll just leave you now, unless there's anything further. You can let us know how you would like to proceed at your next visit, Mrs. Malfoy."

Astoria didn't seem to register that she had spoken, but Draco gave her a quick nod of dismissal.

As soon as the door closed behind Healer Clearwater, he grabbed his wife's wrist again, this time digging hard fingers into the delicate tendons. It was a grip meant to hurt without bruising, and he found Astoria's sharp cry of pain to be disturbingly gratifying.

"I'll ask this once, and I'll use simple words so there is no chance of misunderstanding. _Who did you cheat with_?" He hissed the question at her, his eyes arctic with rage.

Astoria, stupid as she was, began blurting out names. Bletchley. Harper. Bole. Pucey. Montague. Urquhart.

Draco was dumbfounded. If you had asked him this morning, he would have answered that he and Astoria had a reasonably good marriage, notwithstanding that she had trapped him into it before he was nineteen with a deliberately botched contraceptive charm. Now he discovered she had been fucking practically an entire Quidditch team behind his back.

"Is there anyone else?" he demanded.

The minute hesitation before the dark-haired witch shook her head was telling. Draco snarled and pulled his wand, pointing it directly at her now-pale face. "_Legilemens_."

As he suspected, Astoria had been unfaithful to him in a well-appointed Muggle hotel room. In her memories, she was artfully arranged against the white duvet to display the expensive black lingerie she favored. A short blond wizard wearing a three-piece Muggle suit that couldn't quite conceal his slight paunch walked into the room, holding a bouquet of flowers. "Astoria, how delightful to see you," he stated pompously.

Draco broke off the connection to his wife's mind. "You cheated with Macmillan?" he asked incredulously, a vein throbbing dangerously in his forehead. "A fucking limp dick Hufflepuff?"

"He got me pregnant with that limp dick when you couldn't," Astoria sneered.

He punched the wall next to her head.

She flinched and began to cry.

"Try my patience any further and I won't answer for the consequences," Draco warned his unfaithful tart of a wife. "How many times has another man gotten you pregnant?"

Astoria folded in the face of his threat. "I don't know," she sniffed. "I never bothered to use any charms or potions after we lost Scorpius. I just want a baby so badly, Draco."

He stared at her, incredulous. "And any man's baby will do for you?"

She nodded eagerly, oblivious to his bitter sarcasm. "Yes, exactly!"

Hurt battled with anger, and the latter won. He clenched his fists. "How the fuck were you planning to pass off some brown-haired little bastard as a Malfoy?"

Astoria looked at him, eyes swimming with tears. "Well, Ernie's blond, and so is Miles. As for the others, I didn't think you or your parents would care, so long as you got the heir you needed. Your mother told me she doesn't care about blood, so long as any child is raised as a Malfoy."

Draco carefully unclenched his fists at the mention of his mother. Narcissa had drilled it into him that a wizard should never hit a witch. Even if the fucking irresponsible slag richly deserved it. Taking a deep breath, he focused on reining in his temper and restoring the cold Malfoy facade.

"Irrespective of what my mother may have said," and he highly doubted that she would have encouraged Astoria to cuckold him, "you are married to me. Not her. And I will not tolerate infidelity." Malfoys might be notorious for their bad faith, but never towards one another.

"Draco," Astoria pouted at him, "I don't think you're being fair. You told that medi-witch you didn't care if another wizard got me pregnant."

His response was glacial. "Even you should be intelligent enough to appreciate the difference between a fertility treatment and spreading your legs for every wizard of my acquaintance."

He studied his teary-eyed wife impassively. "I think you should take a holiday for the month of August. Any of the Malfoy properties abroad will do." That should give him sufficient time to consult with his solicitor and decide how to proceed.

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. "That's an order, not a suggestion. I don't give a flying fuck about your social calendar or whatever charity event you're organizing. I don't want to see your face anywhere in England until September. Is that clear?"

"Crystal," Astoria whimpered through her tears.

He stood up and walked towards the exit. In the doorway, he paused and spoke, looking over her head. "I won't be back at the Manor until late. Make sure you're gone when I get back."

( ) ( ) ( )

Draco left the hospital through a discreet side exit and wandered aimlessly down the shabby street where the seemingly abandoned Purge & Dowse building was located. Still reeling from Astoria's betrayal, he soon found himself hopelessly lost in Muggle London. The anonymity was refreshing, although his light-weight summer robes drew the occasional odd look. After walking a bit further without seeing any landmarks he recognized, he ducked into an alley and Apparated to Diagon Alley.

Looking at his watch, Draco was dismayed to see less than an hour had passed since he'd left Astoria at St. Mungo's. She would need at least two hours to pack, even with the help of the house elves. In his current mood, he didn't trust himself to return to the Manor until she was sure to have left. He wasn't certain the training of a lifetime would hold against another of her flippant little remarks.

The earlier throng of parade goers in the Alley had thinned out with the approach of the dinner hour. Draco pasted a forbidding scowl on his face as he walked in the direction of Quality Quidditch Supplies, not wishing to be accosted by anyone he knew. At the Quidditch shop, he could easily while away an hour browsing for a new racing broom.

The shop was mercifully quiet, with the clerk occupied in helping the sole customer. Draco made his way towards the Nimbus display, overhearing snatches of their conversation.

"Is there a brighter pink? Yeah, that's brilliant!"

"Can you do a design with baby unicorns, too? Have those little golden buggers chasing after their mums?"

"What about ribbons? Can you add painted ribbons around their necks and braided in their tails? Alright, I want those in emerald green and purple. With sparkles."

Draco couldn't help but grin at the request for the most garish broom design he'd ever heard off, especially since he now recognized the customer's voice. Marcus Flint was the former Quidditch captain of the Slytherin House team, retired Chaser for the Montrose Magpies, and current employee of Malfoy Enterprises, where he was among their most successful salespeople, selling potions and ingredients to companies and institutions throughout western Europe.

Draco sauntered towards the counter, looking forward to taking the piss out of his friend. "Why not tie pink and green ribbons onto the bristles while you're at it, Flint?"

"Malfoy!" Flint clapped him on the back in an exuberant greeting. "I'd do it, my man, if ribbons wouldn't fucking ruin the aerodynamics!"

Draco peered over Flint's beefy shoulder at the rendering of the broom. "Please tell me this is for your wife. You may be a top producer, but my father will not hesitate to fire you if you call on customers while riding _that_."

Flint snorted. "It's not for me, but it's also not for my wife. They don't make a broom big enough for that she-beast. It's a kid's broom, for a little girl." He smiled, slyly. Flint was far from book smart - indeed, he'd had to repeat his last year at Hogwarts - but he was as shrewd and cunning as any Slytherin could hope to be.

"Really?" Draco asked casually. "And here I thought you were having it commissioned for Potter's son."

Flint chuckled appreciatively as he counted out the Galleons to pay for the petite broomstick, while the shop assistant looked carefully blank at the political humor. Underneath his snark, Draco was thinking fast. Flint's marriage was childless as well as miserable, like far too many pure-blood marriages. "So is this for your goddaughter?" he asked carefully.

"Something like that," Flint smugly agreed.

"I see," Draco said. And he was indeed beginning to see, though some things remained murky. "It's been far too long since we caught up over a pint, Marcus."

"We definitely need to catch up, Drake. In fact," Flint glanced at the clock on the shop's wall, "I'm due to meet Nott at the Black Cat in Knockturn Alley. Care to join us?"

Now Draco was wholly intrigued. Bookish Theodore Nott had nothing in common with Flint beyond the purity of their blood and an affiliation with Slytherin house. A meeting between those two smacked of conspiracy rather than a meeting between friends. Not only did plotting suit Draco's natural inclinations, it would provide a welcome distraction from Astoria's whorish behavior. "I'm in. Let's go."


	4. Chapter 4: Marcus Flint's Best Day Ever

**A/N: Thank you for all of the lovely and heartfelt reviews in response to the last chapter, from Colubrina, Elased, It's rose hun, Aphrodite-Venus-u.k., Grovek26, Karou 104, Surugassa, Clarabelle, Btterflykiss 69, shaymars, Matts Miss, Annaea3077, Jenny Felton, Cheshyre Grin, Gunnhilde, and guests. I really do look forward to your collective reactions whenever I post!**

**To answer questions posted in the reviews: **

**1) Timeline? Hermione was Obliviated** **and left the wizarding world in June 1999. More than four years have passed. This chapter and the last take place on July 31, 2003. I'll post the date at the beginning of each chapter's text. **

**2) What's she been up to? You'll find out next chapter! I had planned to combine the discovery of Astoria's infidelity and Flint's activities in one chapter, but it was far too long. **

**Trigger warnings: in the last chapter, Malfoy and Flint were going to meet Nott at a pub. On tap for discussion are serious topics, including infertility and (unrepentant) cheating, as well as mention of rape. **

**_July 31, 2003_**

The Black Cat was an upmarket establishment for Knockturn Alley, which meant Draco would be willing to go there even without a burly friend like Marcus Flint. He also would consent to drink from the pub's glasses. Particularly Firewhiskey, which was strong enough to be a natural disinfectant.

Theodore Nott was already seated, waiting for them at a shadowy corner table. He unfolded his tall, lanky body from his seat, standing briefly to shake their hands. "Flint, nice to see you. Malfoy, it's been a while."

Draco nodded in cool greeting. Theo had always been a lone wolf, on occasion deigning to be an ally. He had known Nott his entire life, as far back as he could remember, but they had never been friends. For a period of time, they had even been brothers-in-law, after a fashion, because Nott had been married to Astoria's elder sister, Daphne. Their not-very-amicable divorce had been finalized a few months before; Draco had not seen Nott since.

Draco knew that Nott had trained after Hogwarts as a solicitor, like his father, but had not known Theo had hung up his own shingle until Flint told him, on their walk over from Quality Quiddith Supplies. The younger Nott was Flint's solicitor, which partially explained why those two would be meeting - but not why the meeting was taking place in a dodgy pub on a public holiday.

The three men kept the conversation on a casual level as they placed their order.

"How's business?" Theo asked.

"Bloody excellent," Flint reported, with a cheeky grin towards Draco. "I plan to ask my boss for a raise, but he's a tight-fisted bastard."

"Lucius is like that with me as well," Draco rejoined dryly. "Didn't I just send you to Provence for a week? That's not exactly hardship duty."

"Yeah, and while I was there I added a couple of new accounts," Marcus bragged. "Beauxbatons also increased their order. Madame Maxime told me their enrollment has been up by about ten percent for the last few years."

"Interesting." Draco made a mental note to tell his father. Lucius, in his capacity as a Hogwarts governor, was constantly lamenting the school's declining enrollment and recently relaxed standards for admission. "Good work, Flint."

As soon as their glasses and bottle of Firewhiskey arrived, Theo cast a _Muffliato_. Professor Snape had taught that spell, along with the importance of discretion, to every student who belonged to his House.

Nott then pinned Draco with an intent look from his unusually light blue eyes, staring through his eyeglasses. "Ordinarily, I don't discuss any client's business in front of a third party, but Marcus wants you to hear this. I'll need your wand oath that nothing said at this table from this point forward goes beyond the three of us."

"I'm willing to give you my oath," Draco said coolly to the dark-haired wizard, "but I want the same in return."

Nott and Flint nodded and the three men briefly touched the tips of their wands together.

"Marcus, you requested an urgent meeting. What's going on?" Nott spoke bluntly.

Flint smiled widely, fully displaying his crooked teeth. "This has been the best fucking day of my life, Nott. Bar none." He was not being sarcastic.

"Oh?" Nott cocked an inquiring brow.

Flint was clearly in an expansive mood, immediately launching into his story. "So at three o'clock in the fucking morning, Katie starts screeching like Salazar's pet banshee."

"That strikes me as a natural reaction by any woman waking up next to you," Draco drawled. "Though I thought your wife's name was Brunhilda?"

"So it is," Flint agreed affably. "Don't tell me you've never strayed, Malfoy."

In point of fact, he had been faithful to his marriage vows, although he planned to rectify that error in the near future. He had already begun compiling a list of the wives and girlfriends of the wizards Astoria had fucked, ranked in order of attractiveness.

Flint continued without waiting for an answer. "Anyways, I go running down the hall, wand out, expecting to see Aurors or at least a burglar. Instead, Isabelle's in her cot, giggling, with her toy unicorn prancing around the room in mid-air, while Katie's screaming some shite about poltergeists."

He stopped, expectantly waiting for their reaction.

"Accidental magic," Nott breathed. "That's excellent!" Suddenly he sobered. "How did you explain it to Katie?"

Flint looked guilty. "I had to Confound her. I was worried she'd hurt herself or the baby. Then I got her back to bed and told her it was just a crazy pregnancy dream."

"Congratulations on your daughter's magic," Nott said formally. "I expect you want me to revise your will and trust documents accordingly, to acknowledge that she is a witch?"

"Yeah, whatever you have to do. Just make sure everything's confidential so my wife doesn't find out. Or those interfering buggers at the Ministry."

"Of course," Nott acknowledged.

Draco narrowed his eyes, less interested in the legalities than in figuring out this cast of characters. "So Isabelle's your daughter?" he asked. "That's who you were buying the broomstick with unicorns for?"

Flint nodded proudly. "My little witch. The broom's a present for her fourth birthday next month. She's going to Chase for Slytherin, mark my words."

"Or perhaps for Gryffindor," Nott pointed out with legalistic precision. "As did her mother."

"Katie Bell?" Draco asked, not entirely surprised at the identity of Flint's mistress. He remembered the dark-haired Chaser from Gryffindor he had accidentally cursed when trying to carry out his mission to kill Dumbledore. Flint always had singled her out in his pep talks about beating the Golden Lions.

"Yeah, our little girl 'is a Bell.' Get it?" Flint chortled. "Pretty kid, she got her mum's looks, thank Merlin, but she's cunning like me. I'll eat the damned Sorting Hat if it doesn't put her in Slytherin."

"Wait, isn't Bell a Mudblood?" Draco asked.

"Yeah, what about it?" Flint answered belligerently. "Nott told me Isabelle counts as a pure-blood under the Ministry's new law. And there have been plenty of half-bloods in Slytherin before."

"Like your godfather," Nott chimed in.

"I'm not questioning your daughter's pure-blood status, Flint," Draco said to his prickly-tempered friend. "But I thought Bell was exiled from the magical world with the rest of the Mudbloods."

"Yeah, she was. We'd found out she was up the duff just before she left. I was in a right panic about what to do, but Theo helped me out. I've been living with her in the Muggle world almost full-time for more than four years now." Flint spoke nonchalantly.

Draco gaped at him. "How in Salazar's name have you managed that? You didn't exactly earn a N.E.W.T. in Muggle Studies."

Marcus sniggered at that. "Neither did you, mate. Both of our fathers would have flayed us for even stepping foot in Burbage's classroom."

He jerked his head towards Nott. "Theo set me up with all the Muggle documents and a cover story. I'm Mark Stone, a pharmaceutical sales rep who travels a lot, so Katie understands why I'm not home every night."

"What about your wife?" Draco asked.

Flint gave a rather unpleasant smile. "We both prefer it when I'm not around. I stand at stud once a month, not that it ever does any bloody good, and otherwise Brunhilda has no objection if I go on my merry way. Unlike this lucky bastard," he gestured at Nott, "my vows are of the "'til death do you part' kind, otherwise I'd have divorced the bitch years ago."

Draco nodded slowly. Flint had just described a relatively common marital arrangement, though he didn't know of any other wizards living with a mistress in the Muggle world.

Clearly, though, there was something he was still missing. "Why are you two both so chuffed that Isabelle did some accidental magic? You're a wizard, Flint, and her mother's a witch, even if she is a Mudblood. I'd expect your daughter to be magical."

"I always thought Isabelle was a Squib, what with the Dark Lord's curse," Flint answered.

"The Dark Lord cursed _you_?" Draco you, unsure why Flint would be singled out for punishment. He had taken the Mark, of course, but he'd always kept his head down and his mouth shut, like a good soldier.

"No one ever told you?" Nott asked, his voice bitter. "Voldemort cursed _all _of us, his entire second generation of faithful Death Eaters. None of us have been able to have children, except for Marcus here and Goyle, and he was Marked just the week before the Final Battle. And everyone knows Goyle's little girl is almost certainly a Squib."

"Yeah, fucking Snake Eyes put something in the Dark Mark that cursed us all sterile, and then got himself killed by Potter before giving anyone the counter-curse," Flint growled.

"But I suspect you may have discovered how to get around the curse, both the infertility and lack of magical ability in any children who are born," Theo said thoughtfully.

He looked to Draco. "Are you certain your parents never said anything to you about the curse?"

"Obviously not," Draco answered with irritation, "because I haven't the slightest fucking idea what you're going on about." Although it made a terrible sort of sense. Pure-bloods, excepting only the Weasleys, had experienced difficulty conceiving in recent generations. Most of Draco's peers were only children. But Draco's own generation hadn't been able to have magical children, period. Now that he thought about it, the only christening he had attended since the War ended had been for Goyle's daughter.

"They may not have known," Nott speculated. "Your father certainly was not part of the Dark Lord's inner circle after his arrest, and Narcissa was never a Death Eater."

Draco nodded in agreement, though he suspected his mother had at least some inkling. "But your father was the Dark Lord's third in command, after my aunt. What does he know?"

"Precious little," Theo snorted. "Just that the Dark Lord had come up with a new way to ensure obedience by rewarding his most loyal followers with pure-blood heirs. And, by implication, depriving the rest of us."

"As if the Cruciactus curse wasn't good enough?" Draco asked sarcastically.

"People will do a great deal to avoid pain," Theo conceded, "but not as much as they would do to ensure the continuation of their line."

At that, Draco nodded grimly. He recalled all the ways his parents had sacrificed and degraded themselves to protect him from the Dark Lord. "Are you certain your father doesn't know the counter-curse?"

"Due to my legal training, I try to avoid absolute answers, but I am positively, absolutely and unequivocally certain," Theo affirmed. "If he knew, I already would have had an heir out of Daphne without having to jump through absurd Muggle-born hoops."

Draco nodded. Nott's logic was unassailable. He filed away the dark-haired wizard's odd comment about jumping through hoops for later reference. "Come to think of it, my mother probably does know about the curse and that it doesn't have an effect on Mudbloods," he offered.

"Really?" Nott asked, with a solicitor's ingrained skepticism. "What makes you think that?"

"When the Wizengamot adopted your father's proposal, my father wanted me to take the Vow with some little old biddy in her nineties. He had the idea that she would die of natural causes in a few years and then I'd be released from any obligation. My mother stepped in and _insisted_ on Hermione Granger."

Flint gave a wolfish grin. "Only the best for the Malfoys, right?"

Draco grinned back. After setting up wards on her flat and assigning a house-elf to check in on her periodically, he had essentially pushed the fiery Mudblood to the back of his mind. Now, thinking several steps ahead, the notion of using Granger as the means to his desired end was _very_ appealing.

"Narcissa is an intelligent woman, with a great deal of foresight," Nott conceded, "but don't you think she would have said something to you?"

"Unlikely," Draco said. "My mother operates on a need-to-know basis. And she despises Mudbloods. She would only tell me about Granger as a last resort, if she were convinced there was no other way to continue the Malfoy line. I'm sure she's still hoping one of Astoria's pregnancies will stick or that the Ministry finds a solution."

Nott gave a sarcastic smile. "There may be hope! I've heard rumors that Umbridge's department is busy looking for a solution to the magical fertility problem."

Flint gave a derisive laugh. "That lot couldn't find their own arses with two hands and a map. They'll never fix it."

"It seems, though, like you've succeeded where the Ministry has failed," Theo said thoughtfully. "Did I hear you say that Katie is pregnant again?"

A proud smile crossed Flint's face. "You did indeed. She's only about three months gone, so we're just starting to tell people now."

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?" Draco asked, concealing his jealousy with difficulty. At this point, he would give his left bollock for any magical child, boy or girl, and that lucky bugger Flint was going to have two.

"Not yet," Flint replied. "I try to avoid doing any magic around Katie. We're going to use the Muggle way to find out, but that won't be for a few more weeks. I'm hoping for a boy, of course."

Nott and Draco both nodded in understanding. Most wizarding estates were entailed and, by magical contract, had to pass to a male relative. Draco reflected bitterly that if current population trends continued, the Weasleys would end up wealthy due to inheritances from cousins five and six times removed from that family of blood traitors.

Flint shrugged. "I need a male heir eventually, but I don't mind trying again." He winked suggestively. "And again, and again, if I need to. Katie wants a big family."

Draco smiled, amused at the irony of Flint, of all people, finding a way around Voldemort's curse. "That's a brilliant solution. Just fuck a Mudblood and use her to produce your magical babies."

"Watch your mouth," Marcus warned. "That's not how it is with Katie."

Draco's smile widened. "Bully for you, Flint. I'm thinking about the rest of us. All I have to do," he summarized, "is seduce Granger, get her pregnant, and I'll have my son and heir."

Nott looked at him with pity. "You make it sound all so easy, Malfoy. It's not."

"Maybe not for you, Theo." Draco smirked. "It's not like I haven't had witches flinging themselves at me since I was thirteen. Mudbloods are no different than any other woman."

"Ah, yes," Nott smirked right back. "I distinctly remember Granger flinging her fist at your face that year."

Draco grimaced, remembering why he and Nott had never been friends, and decided a strategic change of topic was in order. "Who's your Mudblood, Theo?"

Nott cleared his throat. "Cho Chang."

"She's perfect for you. A pretty Ravenclaw who, despite her intelligence, is known for her piss-poor taste in men," Draco bantered.

Suddenly, Nott's wand was at his throat. "Before you explain exactly what you meant by that snide little comment, I'll have you know that I am courting Cho properly, with every intention of making her my wife."

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" Draco swatted Nott's wand aside. "I only meant that she dated Saint Potter, and both of you are spectacled gits. I wasn't insulting your Mudblood's virtue. I doubt the fumbling wanker ever did anything more than hold her hand and kiss her on the cheek."

Theo's face was mottled with anger and he was still clutching his wand. Flint put a restraining hand on his wrist. "Theo, mate, Draco doesn't remember what happened to Chang. He wouldn't take the piss about something like that. Why don't you remind him?"

Nott took a steadying breath. "A few months after the Final Battle, Walden Macnair kidnapped Chang and brought her to Nott Court, since your mother had it made it clear Death Eaters were no longer welcome at Malfoy Manor. He and my father and several other Death Eaters spent the next few days and nights raping her."

"Oh, fuck," Draco swore. He remembered the incident now. Lucius had held a furious Floo call while Draco was in his father's study, listening in. Lucius had berated Nott, Sr. and ordered him to let Cho go free, not because he cared about the sexual abuse of a Mudblood, but so as to not jeopardize the Death Eaters' newly-won political capital. "I'm sorry," he offered inadequately.

"Apology accepted," Theo gritted out. "It's taken years - literally - for Cho to warm up to me, after what happened to her in my father's house. Given what your aunt did to Granger, you should expect the same."

Draco wasn't convinced the situations were equivalent, but prudently let it drop. "She won't remember, Nott. I Obliviated her myself. She'll just see a good-looking, charming bloke paying court to her and she'll be eating out of the palm of my hand in no time."

Nott shook his head. "I wouldn't bet on that, Malfoy. On some instinctive level, they remember us."

Flint nodded emphatically. "Katie does. Not magic or Hogwarts or shite like that, but she knew who I was when she woke up in the hospital. And whenever she's narked at me, she still calls me a cheating snake." He grinned, unrepentant. "Which I suppose I am, but she loves me anyway."

"Look, Granger dated the Weasel King. It can't be that hard to charm her out of her knickers," Draco argued. "Five hundred Galleons says I'll be shagging her before Halloween."

High-stakes bets had always been a favorite diversion among the wealthy members of Slytherin House, even back at Hogwarts. Nott and Flint both perked up at the wager.

"Shagging isn't good enough," the solicitor countered. "You can't just slip her a lust potion and collect your winnings. We'll want to see evidence that she's 'eating out of the palm of your hand,' as you've so eloquently put it."

"Yeah, if you want to win the bet, we want to see Granger arse over elbows in love with you," Flint added.

"Agreed," Draco said readily.

"Then make it a thousand Galleons, 'cuz both of us want in," Flint said.

It was the largest wager Draco had ever made, but he did not even hesitate. His vaults were vast and this was close to a sure thing. "Done," he said, extending his wand. Flint and Nott touched their wands to his, formalizing the terms.

Nott withdrew his wand and smirked. "So, Malfoy. You'll need a Muggle identity and cover story before you approach Granger, won't you?"

"I suppose I will," Draco groaned. Without Nott's help in navigating the Muggle world, Granger would think she was being propositioned by a raving lunatic. "And let me guess - your fee for providing those services will be five hundred Galleons?"

"Got it in one!" Theo exclaimed. "It's always a pleasure doing business with an intelligent client."

"Wanker," Draco grumbled as he reached into his pocket for his cheque book.

Nott accepted the cheque with a sunny smile. "Thanks, Malfoy," he said, folding the cheque and placing it in his pocket.

"What if she has a boyfriend? Or even a husband?" Flint asked suddenly. "She's a looker, and she's been in the Muggle world for more than four years."

Draco waved a dismissive hand. "I'll just _Imperio_ the tosser and make him dump her in some spectacular fashion. Then I'll be there to pick up the pieces."

"You, Malfoy, are morally reprehensible," Nott pronounced.

Draco just smirked at him. "You say it like that's a bad thing."


	5. Chapter 5: The Head Girl from Gryffindor

**A/N: Thanks to everyone - familiar names and new ones - who reviewed chapter 4 (shaymars, Ramyfan, Clarabelle, karou104, surugasasa, Aphrodite-Venus-u.k., Cat130, mythzzrosenov, Gingercat55, Elased, Grovek26, dutch potterfan, latina-pr, Matts Miss, and guests). I really like to hear what you're thinking!**

**Warnings for this chapter: more infidelity. It's getting to be quite the theme. Also, this is an unusually quick update for me, so please don't get used to it!**

**_September 1, 2003_**

Looking out over the rooftops and chimneys visible from the kitchen window in her tiny flat, Hermione realized it was a beautiful morning, with a cloudless blue sky. She pushed up the sill, enjoying the brisk breeze that had blown away the sooty humidity of London in late summer. With a decisive motion, Hermione flipped the calendar taped to her refrigerator from August to September. It had been an eventful month, too much so in Hermione's view.

Her godparents, Wendell and Monica Wilkins, had arrived from Australia on the first day of August for a month-long holiday. The childless couple, who were both dentists with a thriving practice outside of Brisbane, had been pleased as punch at the opportunity to attend Hermione's university graduation ceremony and to finally meet her boyfriend, Andy McLeod. She and Andy had been dating for more than a year (and had been "friends with benefits" and "just friends" well before that), but he had been visiting his family the past August when the Wilkins made their annual trip to visit their goddaughter.

As a graduation present, Monica and Wendell had planned to take Hermione and her boyfriend to the Lake District to celebrate the completion of their undergraduate education at University College London. Andy had merely earned a diploma, but Hermione had completed a dual degree, taking first class honors in both chemistry and English. She also had been awarded a full scholarship from the chemistry department as an incentive to stay on at UCL to obtain her master's degree, which is what she would be doing during the upcoming academic year.

Her boyfriend had seemed a bit off throughout the graduation day, alternately dazed and snappish instead of his normal happy-go-lucky self. Hermione had attributed this to the pressure of meeting her godparents or perhaps the irritant of having to wear mandatory academic dress on a hot summer day. For Hermione, however, the black robes had felt natural.

When Andy had disappeared from the English department's reception for honors students, Hermione had been concerned and a bit annoyed. The concern grew and the annoyance lessened when he failed to answer his mobile phone, and she and her godparents had left the reception early and returned to the flat she and Andy shared in case he had taken ill. The groaning she could hear from the hallway had seemingly validated those concerns, until she had unlocked the flat's front door and found her boyfriend, naked and in perfect health, shagging some blonde on the floor.

Upon hearing the door, Andy had looked up, auburn fringe flopping over his blue eyes, which had been vacant with lust. He had flipped the unknown girl over so that she was straddling him and grinned at Hermione, oblivious to both her outrage and her appalled godparents, standing behind her. "Want to take off those uncomfortable robes and ride my face, luv?" he had asked, utterly unabashed at having been caught cheating.

Hermione had walked out in a rage, slamming the door with enough force that she could hear the flimsy Ikea bookcase fall over, along with gratifying cries of pain from Andy and his bint.

She had spoken to him only twice since. Hermione had permitted him an opportunity the following day to apologize and attempt to explain, but his stammering, fantastical excuse that a voice in his head had made him do it convinced her that he was mental as well as unfaithful. After that conversation, they had spoken once by phone to arrange a time for her to pick up her things from the flat. Then she had blocked his number from her phone. So far as she was concerned, infidelity was unforgivable.

Wendell and Monica spent the rest of August helping her pick up the pieces, acting _in loco parentis_. After canceling the trip to the Lake District, Wendell had worked tirelessly with an estate agent to find her a new flat near campus on short notice. He then had painted the living room her favorite shade of blue and the bedroom her favorite shade of lilac, with the kitchen a sunny yellow. Wendell also had made her laugh through the tears with his vivid descriptions of the types of dental procedures he would like to perform on her ex-boyfriend, all without anesthesia.

Monica had alternated between providing a motherly shoulder to cry on and brisk, practical assistance in furnishing the new flat. She had gifted Hermione with several high-quality pieces the Wilkins had placed in storage when they moved from England to Australia in 1997, including a lovely, feminine guest bedroom suite in ivory-colored wood that reminded Hermione of her bedroom growing up and an inlaid secretary desk, similar to one she recalled from childhood visits to her grandmother's house. With these additions, her new flat felt like home.

Then, her godparents had lovingly insisted that she join them on their holiday in southern France and northern Spain for the second half of August. As British expats, the Wilkins had fully adopted the Aussie practice of taking long, jam-packed trips whenever they ventured away from Down Under. Between the two of them, they had overridden Hermione's protests that they were being too generous and she was intruding on their vacation.

"Pish-posh, Hermione," Wendell laughed, "your mum and dad wouldn't have made us godparents unless they wanted us to spoil you more than a bit. They were our best friends since we were all in dental school together, so they knew full well we'd dote on you!"

Monica had been more serious. "You're like the daughter we never had, darling. We get to see you so rarely, but I hope you know we'd do anything for you."

And Hermione did know that. When she had woken up in a Wiltshire hospital more than four years before, the victim of a hit-and-run driver, the Wilkins had been there at her bedside, having flown in from Australia. Her memories prior to the accident were hazy, but she knew her godparents had been an important part of her life growing up and remained even more so now that she was an adult.

Wendell and Monica were the closest thing to parents she had left, and she had told them so just last night, hugging them fiercely at the airport's departure lounge. She would visit them in Brisbane over the Christmas hols, but right now those seemed very far away.

With her godparents' return to Australia and Andy's status as _persona non grata_, Hermione found herself at a bit of a loose end. Even though classes didn't start for another couple of weeks, she was ahead on her reading and coursework, with her research proposal already finalized and approved by the head of the chemistry department. While she supposed could get a head start on her applications to various doctoral programs, none were due until December, so that wasn't especially pressing on a beautiful September day.

Instead, she took full advantage of the weather, spending the morning in a meandering walk. She circled Regent's Park, climbed up Primrose Hill, and walked along the canal towpath until she turned south just past Pancras Road, her feet leading her inexorably towards King's Cross railway station.

It was late enough in the morning for the crush of commuters to have abated, but the station was still bustling with groups of children and adolescents bound for boarding schools in the northern shires and Scotland. Hermione dimly knew that she had attended such a school, and smiled nostalgically at the array of uniforms and laden luggage trolleys as she queued up for a fancy coffee at the kiosk just past Platform Eight.

She looked in amazement at a tiny brown Scops owl in a cage on one such trolley, until she blinked and realized it was a parakeet. Still odd, that a school would allow a feathery pet, but at least there was no blatant violation of the Wildlife and Countryside Act. The bird's owner, a sandy-haired girl in her late teens, caught her eye and smiled.

Hermione went to pay for her cappuccino, but a freckled hand thrust a crumpled note at the cashier. "My treat," announced the sandy-haired girl. "It's the very least I can do."

"No, really, that's not necessary," a puzzled Hermione demurred, but the girl was insistent and the line behind them was only getting longer.

As they stepped away from the kiosk, Hermione's eye was caught by the shiny badge on the girl's grey uniform. "You're Head Girl! Congratulations!"

The girl looked at her with wide, hopeful eyes. "Do you remember me? Bridey Finnigan. I was a first year your last year at school. We were in the same house," she said, pointing to her gold and maroon-striped tie.

Regretfully, Hermione shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't - "

Bridey interrupted her urgently, a wary eye on the crowd. The sandy-haired, middle-aged woman guarding the luggage trolley gave her a quick, tight-lipped nod. "What about my brother Seamus? He was in your year, in Gryffindor, too. You _must_ remember him."

Hermione tried to tamp down rising anxiety as the questions prodded at her memory. "Of course, how is Seamus these days?" she bluffed. She had a vague impression of a pugnacious male version of the girl standing before her, telling dirty jokes in a thick brogue, but nothing solid for her mind to grasp.

Bridey's face lit up at Hermione's apparent recollection of her brother, despite the morose news she had to convey. "His arm never fully healed, but he does well enough to pull a pint. Seamus took over the pub after You Know Who had our Da killed."

Hermione regarded her blankly. No, she didn't know who. The girl looked crestfallen. "I'm afraid my memory isn't the sharpest," Hermione explained apologetically, increasingly uncomfortable. She hated to be reminded of her accident and the damage it had done to her brain.

"I thought for a moment you - well, we remember _you_. People like Sea and myself and our mam - we won't forget what you did, and you have our undying gratitude. It's a travesty, it is, what the Ministry agreed to."

"Quit pestering the poor lass, Bridey!" The sandy-haired woman had abandoned the luggage trolley in favor of a firm grip on her daughter's arm. "You need to go, or you'll miss the train. And you have your duties to see to, or you'll lose that badge you worked so hard to earn."

The girl looked sadly at Hermione. "She doesn't remember, Mam."

"You'll only get yourself in trouble trying to help her recall," she warned her daughter in an undertone not meant for Hermione's ears.

Her daughter rolled her eyes in typical teenage fashion and asked one more question of Hermione. "Shall I give your regards to Professor McGonagall?"

The name brought forth an image of an upright old woman with her hair pulled back in a bun. "Please do! She was my favorite teacher," Hermione blurted out, knowing that was true but frustrated at her inability to remember why.

Bridey beamed. "I will, I promise!" She then obediently took herself off, pushing the luggage trolley one-handed, so that she could give a farewell wave. "Ta-ta, Hermione. Stop by the Red Lion to see Seamus if you're ever in Dublin!

After her daughter's departure, the sandy-haired woman looked directly at Hermione, who drew in a sharp breath at the pity and pain in the woman's peridot green eyes. They reminded her of someone, though his eyes had been darker. _Harry_.

The woman was speaking, but Hermione was half-distracted by the wisps of her memories. "We Irish have a saying," she said. "'May you never forget what is worth remembering, nor ever remember what is best forgotten.'"

She sighed heavily, still staring into Hermione's eyes. "You've been cursed with the first, but blessed with the second. It's probably for the best, dearie."

With that strange dismissal, the woman turned sharply on her heel and disappeared into the crowd before Hermione could ask what she meant.


	6. Chapter 6: A Flashy Sort of Atonement

**A/N: My thanks to shaymars, deator11, Elased, surugasasa, Karou104, dutch potterfan, Cat 130, Locutus, Grovek26, Ramyfan, Colubrina, Clarabelle, sundance1989, aryaaa, latina-pr, Cheshyre Grin, Aprodite-Venus-u.k, and unnamed guests for taking the time to review the last chapter. I very much appreciate your kind words and insightful comments. **

**_September 1, 2003 (early evening)_**

Draco was engrossed in a monthly sales report when a sharp crack disrupted his concentration and caused him to snap the point of his quill.

"Bugger," he swore at the sight of ink splattering his sleeve. "Typical fucking Monday!" Since the War ended, he wasn't normally so jumpy, but his office at Malfoy Enterprises was warded against Apparition. At least Apparition by humans.

"Mipsy is very sorry," the house-elf squeaked, prostrating herself so that her large ears touched the floor. "Mipsy did not mean to startle Master Draco and make him spill ink, oh no, and Mipsy will punish herself most grievously if young Master desires."

"No, Mipsy, I don't so desire," Draco said to the elf. "Just clean this up." He held out his arm and the bat-eared creature used her magic to make short work of the stain, with no further mention of self-harm.

Mipsy had been his personal elf since childhood. There were many reasons why he was fond of her, not the least of which was that she lacked the masochistic tendencies that characterized so many of the other Malfoy elves. Mipsy was also reliable, discreet, and owed her primary loyalty to _him_, which is why he had assigned her to keep watch over Granger.

"How's my little Mudblood doing?" he asked, suppressing a grin at the reproachful look in Mipsy's bulging eyes. The house-elf had grown absurdly fond of Granger over the last four years, even though it was a one-sided relationship, with Granger not even aware of the elf's existence. Mipsy been delighted with his orders, starting a month ago, to monitor Granger's activities on a daily basis instead of just occasionally checking in on her.

"Miss is feeling sad today," the house-elf reported, wringing her hands in sympathy. "She is missing her parents, now that they is going back to Australia."

Draco nodded while buffing his fingernails against his now-pristine sleeve, not particularly concerned or interested. "She'll see them again in a few months. It could be worse."

Really, it was thanks to him and his mother that Granger's parents were in her life at all. So far as he knew, Memory Charms could only be reversed by their caster or broken by torture. When the Ministry barred Granger from traveling to Australia, he and Narcissa had gone instead. They had augmented the Wilkins' memories to add a beloved goddaughter. It was the best they could do, and exactly what Granger had bargained for.

"She is also missing the ginger boy, even though he was messy and left socks and underwear on the floor for Mipsy to pick up," the elf continued.

That got his attention. "He's not still hanging around, is he?" Draco demanded, wondering what it was with Granger and her tolerance for red-headed tossers.

He thought that he'd gotten rid of her Muggle boyfriend for once and for all. The bloke had put up a good fight against the Imperius curse - certainly better than Madam Rosmerta - but when he succumbed, he had done so in a gratifying manner. Draco personally thought it had been a master stroke to force the ginger to ask Granger if she'd like to take part in a threesome while her godparents looked on.

He hadn't thought she would forgive the ginger anytime in this lifetime or the next. Still, he always had been surprised back at Hogwarts as to how much shite she put up with from the Weasel King.

"The ginger boy isn't being allowed in where Miss is living now, and Miss will not take his calls, but he sends her letters," Mipsy replied. "Miss burns them and cries some more." She pulled at her ears in distress.

"That's fine, then," Draco said with some relief. It would be degrading to have to compete with a Muggle for Granger's affections. As for her tears, she could cry on his shoulder. A sad Granger was a vulnerable Granger. "Don't worry, Mipsy," he reassured the elf. "I'll help her feel better."

The house-elf beamed at him. "Miss is going to the bookstore, so young Master can meets her there now."

Draco grinned, eager to put his plan into action and pleased to see Granger was acting true to form. He had Obliviated her memories with a very light hand, not wanting to risk any harm to her that would break the Vow and rebound on himself. The Granger he had known at Hogwarts would enthusiastically discuss books with anyone, even lowly Hufflepuffs and illiterate Weasels. It should be child's play to strike up a conversation with her at a bookstore and then, if all went well, continue it at a coffee shop or perhaps even her flat.

He grabbed the wallet containing his Muggle money and identification from a desk drawer and shucked off his robes. With a quick look in the mirror behind the door, Draco was ready to go.

"Alright, Mips," he said, holding out his arm. "Take me there."

(x) (x) (x)

After the disturbing encounter at King's Cross station, Hermione returned home for a quick lunch and contemplation over a cup of tea. This wasn't the first time strangers had approached her to express their gratitude for something she could not remember, but this was the first time she had been given facts - just names, really - to work with.

With her background in a scientific discipline, she valued data. Before she could forget, she carefully wrote all of the information Bridey had divulged in a notebook, with dotted lines to indicate connections where appropriate. It was precious little to go on. Frustrated, she set the notebook back in the antique secretary desk and decided on a field trip to her favorite bookstore.

Located a short walk from her new flat, the bookstore sold a wide selection of new and secondhand books and other publications, and contained any number of comfortable chairs and secluded nooks over three floors to encourage browsing. As a sop to her conscience, Hermione spent some time upon entering the store with the most recent academic journals in the fields of organic chemistry and biochemistry to see if there was anything relevant to her term research project. She made note of a few promising articles to obtain from UCL's science library and then made a beeline for modern fiction.

In hindsight, the collision probably was her fault. She had a bad habit of not watching where she was going in bookstores, being too focused on eying the shelves for a promising new story. That didn't stop her from lashing out, though.

"Ouch!" Hermione yelped, as she collided with a hard, male chest. Pale, well-manicured hands shot out to grab her upper arms and keep her from falling.

Once she regained her balance, Hermione found her eyes on level with the second button down on an expensive, grey designer shirt. She looked up into matching grey eyes, fringed with dark lashes and looking much more amused than apologetic. Artfully tousled platinum-blond hair, perfect porcelain skin and sharp, aristocratic cheekbones completed the picture. He was far better-looking than any bloke had a right to be. Even worse, he clearly knew it.

He opened his pretty pink mouth to say something she was sure would be cutting, so Hermione beat him to it. "Watch where you're going, you oaf!" she snarled, shrugging his hands off her arms.

Something dark flashed in his silver-grey eyes and his jaw tightened, but his response was milder than she anticipated. "I _was_ going to apologize."

"Don't bother," she told him. His voice was exactly the type of upper-class drawl she expected, and it rubbed her entirely the wrong way. "I wouldn't accept it, anyways, you over-entitled prat."

He raised one perfect eyebrow. "Well, cheers, then." He turned his back on her and walked away towards the front counter, where he embarked on a flirtatious conversation with the cashier.

Hermione watched him go with narrowed eyes. It wasn't like her to abuse a perfect stranger, but there was no reason for someone like _him_ to be here. With a sniff, she selected a favorite novel from the shelf and began to read, keeping a wary eye on the blond and hoping that he would leave soon.

(x) (x) (x)

Draco was quietly fuming as he turned away from Granger. Clearly, he had failed to remove her bitchiness when he had taken her memories of magic. Probably it was too ingrained in her character to ever be removed, even by an Obliviate. It would do him absolutely no good at present to continue conversing with the obnoxious bint. It would only devolve into a counterproductive exchange of insults.

The gratifying responsiveness from the cute little blonde minding the till, not to mention admiring looks from other women in the store, restored Draco's good humor and reinforced that the problem lay with Granger, rather than his Muggle persona. While a small part of his attention was devoted to the giggling cashier, the greater parter of his mind was analyzing what he knew about Granger and recalculating the best way to approach her.

From his observations at school, he knew she was equally intelligent and stubborn, a fierce champion of any perceived underdog (witness S.P.E.W.), hot-tempered but ultimately fair, and prone to self-doubt where boys (now men) were concerned. Those insights gave him enough to work with. Draco smiled, a slow, predatory smile that made the blonde catch her breath in anticipation, even though it wasn't meant for her.

He had been subtly watching Granger for the last fifteen minutes. Her suspicious glances in his direction had become less frequent, as her temper cooled and her book captured more of her attention. The last few looks she had given him had been vaguely confused and much less hostile, and she was now nervously nibbling her lower lip. Draco figured there was no better time to strike.

Taking his leave of the blonde bird, he sauntered back in Granger's direction. He stopped a foot or so away, careful not to invade her personal space, and lightly cleared his throat.

She looked up and flushed faintly in embarrassment.

"My apology still stands, if you're now willing to accept it," Draco offered in a conciliatory tone.

And truly, he _was_ sorry. Physically bumping into her had been a momentary impulse, driven by a curiosity to see how she felt in his arms, a practice run as it were. If Draco had known it would trigger such a hostile fight-or-flight response, he would have stuck with his original plan of walking over to her and initiating a conversation about books.

She responded to his sincerity like any good Gryffindor. "Apology accepted," she said in a low voice, looking down at her book. "I suppose I owe you one as well, for reacting as I did."

He waved it off. "No, you don't owe me anything. I barged into you, after all." Draco thought magnanimity would serve his purposes well.

For the first time in his life, he got an imploring look from those big chocolate eyes. "No, really. I shouldn't have insulted you when I don't even know you."

"It's alright. I probably reminded you of some git you went to school with, though I hope you won't continue to hold that against me. I'm Malcolm Foy," he introduced his Muggle alter ego with a disarming grin and outstretched hand.

Unlike that Muggle-raised barbarian Potter, Granger actually had some manners. She responded with an infinitesimal smile as she shook his hand. "Hermione Granger."

"What are you reading?" he asked, reverting to his original plan of literary discussion as an icebreaker.

Without a word, she turned the book so he could see the cover.

"_Atonement_? I'm not familiar with it."

"Really? The concept or the novel?" she asked, with a hint of her usual acidity when addressing him.

"Clearly the latter, since I've been trying to make amends for the last half-hour," he told her, with only a bit of snark.

"I can't believe you've never heard of it!" she exclaimed, wide-eyed. "It was short-listed for the Booker Prize just last year!"

"I'm afraid I've been a bit busy, between uni and work, to read much outside my field." Draco did not want Granger to think he was an ignoramus. "What's the book about?"

With that, she was off and running, summarizing the novel with an earnest swottishness that he previously had thought she reserved for _Hogwarts: A History_. Still, Granger was perceptive for a former Gryffindor. A couple of minutes in, she stopped her recital abruptly. "I'm boring you, aren't I?"

"No, I like hearing you speak," and Draco truly was enjoying her sparkling eyes and enthusiastic gestures, "but the book doesn't sound like my cup of tea. Perhaps you can suggest something lighter?"

"Do you enjoy history, Malcolm?" she asked, with a hint of underlying mischief. Clearly, she had something in mind.

Draco decided to play along. "It wasn't my favorite subject back in school, because the teacher was deadly dull, but I've always enjoyed reading it on my own."

Granger moved down the aisle and stretched to reach one of a series of brightly colored paperbacks on the topmost shelf, each featuring a chap with a handlebar mustache. "These were some of my dad's favorite novels. He always described them as the most painless way he knew of to learn the military history of the British Empire."

Draco reached over her shoulder to assist. "Is there a particular one I should fetch?"

She shrugged. "They all follow the same formula, but you may like this one. It's set in China." He followed her slender finger and, with an effort, kept his eyes from widening at the title as he retrieved the book.

"The entire series is about a bully at boarding school who is expelled, joins the army, and finds himself involved in most of the pivotal military campaigns of the mid-nineteenth century, despite his cowardice and consistent attempts to run away and let others do the fighting for him." Granger looked up at him, with a disturbingly knowing look. "He's also a vicious, lying, cheating cad."

Draco rolled his eyes at the predictable moralism of Gryffindors. "Let me guess. The protagonist, if you can call him that, winds up disgraced, impoverished, alone, and bitterly remorseful when he dies a gruesome death at a young age?"

She smiled and shook her head. "Quite the opposite. He becomes a decorated general, winds up fabulously wealthy as a result of looting and shady business deals, and has any number of devoted grand-grandchildren when he finally dies a peaceful death in his nineties. And I believe he remains utterly unrepentant to the end."

"Sounds like my kind of story." Moderately intrigued, he leaned against the shelf, opened the book to a random page and began reading. After a few pages, he looked down at Granger with an expression of mock offense. "Miss Granger! There are lewd scenes in this novel!"

"Quite a few," she agreed readily, with an inviting little smirk. "And Flashy is a bigot and a snob, as well as a terrible chauvinist towards women, but I didn't think you would find any of that off-putting."

"Oh, do you know me so well?" Draco gave her a teasing look. It was fun to play with Granger, particularly with the deck stacked so lopsidedly in his favor.

"I know your type," she retorted, suddenly with an angry edge again.

"And here I was thinking you weren't the sort of girl to engage in stereotypes, to judge a book by its cover, as it were." He allowed just the tiniest hint of hurt to flavor the reprimand, and Granger reacted predictably. Her brown eyes widened and she gave a guilty gasp.

"I'm _so_ sorry. I don't know what got into me." She worried her lip and then apparently decided to confide in him. "I just broke up with my boyfriend last month after I caught him cheating on me, so I'm not really fit company right now."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Hermione," he drawled, rather liking the sound of his Muggle name on her lips and vice versa. He ran a quick glance over her figure. Her loose peasant blouse over a camisole was far from revealing, but her breasts had felt pleasantly round and firm against his chest when he'd bumped up against her. And her long, tanned legs, highlighted by denim shorts, were first-class. All in all, Granger was extremely fit.

"Prat! That isn't what I meant."

"I call it like I see it, princess. Don't expect me to apologize for that." Granger's cheeks were red, but she seemed flattered and flustered by the appraisal, rather than offended.

Draco closed the book she had picked out for him. "Thanks for the recommendation. Are you getting that one?" he asked, nodding towards the more serious novel in her hands.

She looked down at the book and shook her head regretfully. "No, I don't think so."

"Here, let me buy it for you." Draco plucked the book from her hands. He could tell Granger wanted it, but probably didn't think she could spare the money on her student stipend. "Consider it a personal gesture of atonement for nearly knocking you off your feet."

"I'd really prefer that you didn't." She spoke coldly. Once again, Granger's behavior had switched on a Knut. Draco could tell this was a fight he wasn't going to win.

"Alright, Hermione. What about a cup of coffee, instead?" he asked, with a charmingly boyish smile.

She hesitated, but he was certain she was going to agree. Despite a couple of awkward moments, it had overall been a good conversation, and based on her body language, Draco would have bet his Firebolt IV that the attraction he was feeling was mutual.

"I know a great little coffee shop around the corner," he coaxed. And with that, he cocked it up.

"I know the place. I used to go there a lot." Granger's voice trailed off and her eyes were overly bright. "Maybe some other time?" she offered with bright insincerity.

"Sure," he agreed pleasantly, apparently accepting the rebuff even as he cursed himself for unwittingly suggesting a place she apparently had frequented with her ginger ex. It was clear he wouldn't make any further progress with Granger tonight. Fortunately, he had a back-up plan.

"Maybe I'll see you around, Hermione." With a smile and a wave, Draco paid for his two books and left the store, aware of Granger's eyes following him out the door.

(x) (x) (x)

For the second time that day, Hermione sought the shelter of her flat, and the comfort of a mug of tea, after an unsettling encounter.

Bridey and her mother were strangers who had recognized Hermione. The situation in the bookstore had been the opposite. Malcolm Foy had not seemed to know her. But she couldn't shake the feeling that she knew him.

Perhaps she was just seeking an excuse for her poor behavior, Hermione thought, feeling both guilty and embarrassed. She had ricocheted between snapping his head off and flirting with him, for God's sake! While there was no denying she still was smarting from Andy's betrayal, there was no reason to take that out on mankind in general, or one specific representative thereof who had made her spine tingle with his deliciously attractive smirk.

Or was her spine tingling for some more sinister reason? He reminded her of someone, someone not very nice. But as Malcolm had accurately pointed out, it wasn't right for her to judge him just because he sparked a recollection of some git-like boy who had bullied her years ago. Her instincts were quite at war where Malcolm was concerned. On the one hand, they were screaming that he was a ruthless, selfish bastard and best avoided. On the other hand, she knew, with a bone-deep certainty, that he _couldn't_ hurt her. He was a defanged snake, at least when it came to her.

Of course, her instincts might be worth bugger all. Hermione had noticed, since her accident, that she was inclined to like and trust people with red hair, to think they represented warmth, and affection, and close family ties. It was one of the things that initially had drawn her to Andy, and look how that had turned out.

Or maybe her instincts were spot on. Deep down, she always had a fear that her relationship with Andy worked so well because it was easy, and that he would walk out on her if things ever got difficult. And when she had caught him shagging that blonde slag, there had been a sense of déjà vu underneath her hurt and rage. Maybe there had been another boy with red hair in her life before Andy, before the accident. But if so, he hadn't treated her very well.

Hermione set down her cooling mug of tea, pushed up her sleeve and, for, perhaps the thousandth time, traced the dark pink scars on the inside of her forearm. _Mudblood_. She wished she knew what it meant. Nothing good, of course, but it was a slur that was no longer familiar to her. Hermione also half-wished she could remember how it had happened. Her nightmares supplied some answers - being held down and subjected to blinding pain, while screaming denials to a woman's questions - but no context. The scar tissue had been at least a year old at the time of her accident, so there was no apparent connection between the two injuries.

She could tell this would be another nightmare night. Sleeping with Andy - in both senses - had kept the worst of the dreams away. His warm presence at her back had been a comfort, while sex usually brought blissful oblivion in its wake. Cheap red wine from Tesco or tablets of Sominex were no substitute. Unbidden, her imagination supplied an image of Malcolm moving above her, lips parted on a moan and pale fringe hanging down over half-closed silvery eyes. Hermione found herself wondering how good he might be at chasing away her nightmares, and thought he might be very adept indeed.

She snorted to herself. She was extremely unlikely to find out firsthand after behaving like a harpy and then nearly bursting into tears when he invited her for a coffee. Malcolm couldn't possibly have known that she and Andy had often gone to that coffee shop on lazy Saturday mornings. She certainly wasn't looking to rush into a new relationship, but coffee and conversation would have been a nice diversion. Instead, she had tea and a book.

Hermione reached into her trusty messenger bag to pull out the well-worn paperback novel she had packed this morning before her sojourn around London. Her fingertips instead brushed a smooth, hardcover spine. With a puzzled frown, she pulled out the brand-new copy of _Atonement_ she had decided against purchasing at the bookstore. There was a receipt with today's date tucked into the front cover, with a note scrawled in ornate cursive on the back:

_Hermione - If I can persuade you to reconsider coffee, I will be waiting at Bar Italia in Soho Friday evening at 6 o'clock. Yours, M. Foy. _

There was a fairly large ink mark after his initial, as though Malcolm had begun to sign himself by his first name and then decided that was too informal. She found herself smiling at the thought of someone so cocksure second-guessing himself. Hermione wondered what sleight of hand Malcolm had used to place the book into her bag, without her ever noticing. She also was impressed that he had spelt her name correctly, and speculated that he might be a Shakespeare fan. She decided to ask him about both when she saw him on Friday, and made a note of the time and place in her calendar.

If the book laying on her lap provided any lesson, it was that second chances rarely came around and should be cherished when they did, even for something so trivial as coffee with an intriguingly familiar stranger.

**A/N: The books referenced in this chapter are Ian McEwan's _Atonement_**** and the Flashman Papers, specifically ****_Flashman and the Dragon_****, by George MacDonald Fraser. **


	7. Chapter 7: The Coffee Date

**A/N: As always, thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter (Gullb3rg, Ramyfan, alyssalui, Colubrina, Gunnhildde, Aphrodite-Venus-u.k, ASJS, Cat130, Kettle-of-fish, shaymars, AleDC, dutch potterfan, sundance 1989, Grovek26, Clarabelle, Cheshyre Grin, Shadowdancer9, and guests). I especially enjoyed hearing from the reviewers who don't normally read Dramione but have made an exception for this story. **

**_September 5, 2003_**

"I don't care if it's lunchtime, I need a drink," Flint moaned, as he slid into their usual booth at the Black Cat. "Your dad was in rare form this morning, Drake."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose with a grimace and nodded in silent agreement. His day had begun with the arrival of a hysterical Howler - more of a Whiner, really - from Astoria, begging for forgiveness and promising to be a better wife if only he would agree to let her come home.

The manipulative little bitch had arranged for delivery while he was eating breakfast with his parents, shattering the polite fiction that she was "convalescing" at the Malfoy family villa after suffering another miscarriage. Lucius had been on his back ever since, unwilling to believe that his daughter-in-law functioned as the village bicycle among Draco's circle of so-called friends. The row between father and son had spilled over into the workplace, with Flint only one of several employees to suffer the sharp edge of Lucius's tongue.

"Three Butterbeers," Nott told the bored waitress.

"And fish and chips with mushy peas," Flint chimed in.

"For the table?" she asked.

Nott shrugged and Draco gave no sign he had heard. "Yeah, why not," Flint answered for them.

As soon as she walked away, Nott slid a folder across the table to Draco. "I have the proverbial good news and bad news."

"Hit me with the bad news first, so I can reach an absolute nadir for the day," Draco requested.

"You asked me for a second opinion on your prenuptial agreement. The Greengrasses negotiated the same terms for Astoria as they did for Daphne, which means you have an iron-clad magical contract for the first five years of your marriage. Merlin himself couldn't break it. When did you and Astoria get married?"

"The fifteenth of May, 1999," Draco recited automatically.

"Anytime after 15 May 2004, you can dissolve your marriage by mutual agreement so long as there are no children born of the union, which is what Daphne and I did, or you can unilaterally obtain a divorce if you have cause."

"Oh, I have cause," Draco stated, still bitter at his wife's infidelity. "So that's the good news, Nott? If I wait several more months, I can be rid of my cheating slag of a wife?"

"No, the good news is that I found a flat that meets your specifications. It's the ground floor and first floor of a terraced house in Knightsbridge, on a quiet side street. Three bedrooms, modern kitchen and bathrooms, a garden. The building is owned by a Squib, so you can ward it, even though it's in an entirely Muggle neighborhood."

Draco hummed in approval. "Sounds promising. Did you bring photos?"

Nott tapped the folder. "Right here."

Draco gave them a quick examination, shifting the folder to make room as the waitress returned with their order. "Very nice. Is it available now?"

"Ready to move in," Theo nodded. "If you'd like, you can stop by my office later to take care of the paperwork and deposit."

"It can't be too soon," the blond wizard muttered, "especially with my father so eager to let Astoria back into the Manor." His own flat would be a refuge, as well as a place to take Granger as their relationship progressed. Merlin knew he could never take her back to Malfoy Manor; his wrist twinged even at the thought.

He turned his attention to their lunch. "Are you sure it's safe to eat here?" Draco asked with a suspicious eye towards the less-than-sparkling cutlery.

"Don't be such a ponce, Malfoy," Flint laughed at him. "The fish and chips here are fucking excellent!"

"The fish and chips are no worse than those served at the Leaky Cauldron," Nott stated judiciously. "I've seen you eat those."

"Maybe late one night when I was eighteen and drunk off my arse," Draco grumbled, prodding at the breaded piece of fish with his fork as though it might still be alive. "I have a date with Granger tonight and don't want to be puking my guts out."

"How is it going with her?" Theo asked, curious.

Draco shrugged. "She runs a bit hot and cold, but the same can be said of any woman."

Flint grinned, mockingly. "Nervous, Malfoy? Got some butterflies in your stomach?"

"Hardly," Draco said. "I'm not exactly some virginal fourteen-year-old Hufflepuff who's never been with a woman."

"So I have been told," Nott said drily. "Did you sense any recognition on her part?"

Theo's question was a good one, and Draco took a moment to formulate his answer. "She doesn't remember me, but she has a devastatingly accurate sense of what I'm like."

"And what's that?" Nott inquired.

"The nicest thing she told me was that I'm an over-entitled prat."

Flint and Nott both chuckled at that. "She was always known as the brightest witch of our age," Theo pointed out.

"But I have my fair-minded little Gryffindor halfway convinced that her subconscious memories are nothing more than unfair stereotyping on her part." Draco grinned slyly.

"Where are you taking Granger?" Nott asked, no longer laughing. The solicitor recognized an effective stratagem when he heard one.

"Just out for coffee."

"Coffee?" Flint guffawed. "You've had more than a month and you've only managed to get Granger to agree to coffee? Your fourteen-year-old Hufflepuff would have at least snogged her by now!"

"I had to spend a couple of weeks with Theo learning how to act like a Muggle, and then Granger left the country," Draco defended himself. "This date is quick work on my part." He decided to omit the parts where Granger turned him down at the bookstore, and where he had to resort to a mild compulsion charm on his note - more of an enticement, really - to guarantee she would show up on Friday.

"It's not even a real date!" Flint insisted. "It's 'just coffee.'" He mimed air quotes as he spoke.

"Is this some Muggle rule I'm not aware of, that coffee doesn't count? What do you plonkers do when you take your Mudbloods out?" Draco demanded.

"Katie is sporty, so when we can find someone to mind the sprog, I'll take her down to the pub or out to a football match."

"Oh, that's fucking romantic!" Draco scoffed.

"Hey, arsehole, it's what the lady likes! In fact, I think I'll be using the Galleons I win off you to buy us season tickets for Arsenal."

Nott was still frowning at Draco's casual slur. "We often just get takeaway and a movie to watch at her place or mine, because _Cho_ is very busy with her clinical training." The solicitor emphasized his girlfriend's name. "When she has a break from her rotations, I take her to the symphony."

"You detest the symphony, Nott," Draco noted. "Astoria told me that Daphne always complained you wouldn't take her."

Theo looked pointedly at his wrist. "You will find that it behooves you to do whatever is necessary to keep Granger content."

Flint chuckled darkly. "You'll see, Malfoy. You'll see."

(x) (x) (x)

When Hermione arrived at the bustling Soho coffee shop a few minutes before six o'clock, Malcolm was already there, having managed to snag one of the desirable outside tables. He stood up with a smile and pulled out a chair for her.

"How was your day?" he asked.

Truthfully, it had been bloody awful, kicking off at half-past three in the morning with a nightmare about a giant, animated chess set that left her shivering and unable to get back to sleep. The daylight hours then had been filled with irritating first years, requiring undue effort on her part as a teaching assistant due to their own inability to grasp basic precepts of chemistry, as well as an exasperating roadblock in her own research.

But she wasn't about to burden Malcolm with that.

Before she could respond to his pleasantry with one of her own, the waiter arrived with a tall latte and steaming cup of espresso. Hermione took a grateful sip of the former. "You must be a magician, Malcolm."

He had taken a too-quick drink of his espresso and choked slightly. "I beg your pardon?"

Hermione waved an expressive hand. "You found a table, here, on a Friday night. You managed to guess my coffee beverage of choice. And, somehow, you bought a book and placed it in my bag without me ever realizing."

Malcolm smirked at her, a look that sent a rather nice tingle down her spine. "I'm a man of many talents, Hermione. So, how was your day?" he repeated.

She gave him a slow, considering smile. "I think," she said, "that it is about to get much better."

(x) (x) (x)

Nearly three hours later, they were still laughing and talking over coffee. A panini had come and gone, but the remnants of a slice of chocolate cake remained on the table. The night wasn't yet over, but Draco was willing to rate it as a smashing first date. Flint could bugger off.

He was rather enjoying getting to know this older, Muggle version of the Granger he had gone to school with, particularly now that she had been divested of her ginger and scarred appendages.

Some things hadn't changed: she still was impressively intelligent, passionate about her causes, and quick to retort. But Draco found he was no longer threatened by her intelligence, now that they were not direct competitors. She could earn top marks at Muggle uni and gain admission to a top doctoral program (she mentioned her pending applications to "Oxbridge" and "the other Cambridge," whatever that meant) and his father wouldn't know or care. Similarly, her new causes were focused on the Muggle world. Unlike Granger's campaign for house-elf rights or her membership in the Order of the Phoenix, they posed no threat to his way of life and he could dismiss them as harmless diversions. And her retorts now had an underlying flirtatiousness that had been utterly absent at Hogwarts.

The conversation had flowed easily, despite - or perhaps because - they were each concealing fundamental truths. He introduced Hermione to his Muggle persona, who wasn't all that different from the real Draco. He fully agreed with Theo's philosophy that the best lies were those closest to the truth.

So Malcolm Foy was the only child of a demanding executive father and a doting socialite mother, hailing from Wiltshire. His father, he told Granger, was active in Conservative political circles, while his mother's charitable activities focused on orphans and the local hospital. Like Draco, Malcolm had attended an exclusive boarding school, though the school he and Nott had selected for the cover story was all boys, so Granger would not even entertain the possibility she had gone to school with him. And like Draco, Malcolm now worked for the family business, though he had first attended Muggle uni and studied economics.

He was surprised to learn that Granger, from what she remembered of her Muggle background, also had enjoyed a privileged upbringing. Her parents had been successful dentists in Hampshire and her recollections of horseback riding lessons and dance class were not that different from a pure-blooded girl. Granger told him that she, too had attended a boarding school, but did not volunteer the name. Draco knew that if pressed, she would have made up a name - she no longer recalled Hogwarts. She also neglected to mention her accident or what had happened to her parents, though he noticed she always referred to them in the past tense.

"Would you like another?" he asked.

"If I have a third coffee, I won't sleep tonight!" Granger laughingly protested.

"You say it like that's a bad thing," he purred suggestively.

"No, not always." Her words were innocent enough, but there was a promise in those golden-brown eyes. "But if I stay up tonight, it will be purely for reasons of insomnia, and it would be for the second night in a row."

"Alright," he conceded, signaling for their check. For the first time, Draco noticed faint dark shadows under her eyes, skillfully hidden by Muggle make-up. Still, one could not grow up as Narcissa Malfoy's son without gaining an appreciation for the subtle ways in which women could enhance their appearance. He could tell Granger had made a bit of an effort for him, wearing a shirt in a flattering shade of blue-green and some gloss on her lips, and he appreciated it. She was more natural and less polished than Astoria or Pansy, both of whom were his usual type of witch, but there was no denying Granger was attractive.

"I'll walk you home," Draco offered, counting out the appropriate amount of Muggle notes and coins for their coffees and snacks and firmly waving away Granger's attempt to contribute.

It was a pleasant autumn night, with enough of a nip in the air to justify chivalrously offering Granger his jacket. She declined, which was a relief, since Draco was wearing a only short-sleeved T-shirt underneath and did not wish to mar the evening by trying to explain the Mark on his forearm.

He was curious to visit her neighborhood and see her building. He had been to Granger's new flat before, to set the wards, but Mipsy had brought him there and he had the Apparated back to the Manor. She lived on a quiet street of narrow and slightly shabby Victorian townhouses, most long-since subdivided into flats.

"Oh, what is he doing here?" Granger's voice was suddenly low and angry, reminiscent of the way she used to address him.

Looking up the block, Draco saw a shock of red hair. Granger's ex-boyfriend was sitting on the stoop in front of what was evidently her building, waiting for her. The blighter had also had at least a pint too many, from the slightly slack expression on his face and sway in his step as he stood up to confront them.

"Hermione," he called out, desperately. "Please, will you give me another chance? Or just talk to me, let me explain!"

"You already had your chance to explain, Andy, and you wasted it. There is nothing further to be said. Your actions speak for themselves." Granger spoke with all the icy gravity of a judge delivering a lengthy sentence.

"That bint didn't mean anything to me. I don't even know her name!" The ginger cried out.

"Just making it worse, mate," Draco muttered, hiding his inner glee.

"Honestly, Andrew! That makes your conduct even more despicable." This was vintage Granger, hands on her hips and spitting with anger. Draco had been on the receiving end of that temper often enough at Hogwarts to feel a tinge of pity for the hapless ginger Muggle.

"I swear to you, Hermione, it won't happen again. Please, please don't cut me out of your life! I miss you so much. Could we start over, even just as friends?"

The Muggle was so obviously sincere that Granger was beginning to thaw, a tiny bit. Draco decided to intervene before the ginger tosser was permitted to regain a toehold in her life.

"I wouldn't believe him, if I were you," he advised Granger, stepping a bit closer and placing a lightly possessive hand on her back. "You told me you caught him with his pants down, literally. A snake may shed its skin but a leopard can't change its spots."

She nodded slowly, and spoke almost to herself. "'Lions make a leopard tame, yea, but not change his spots.'"

Draco held her eyes. "Precisely."

The Muggle looked confused and angry. Draco wondered if he might be a distant, Squib connection of the Weasley family. He had seen a similar expression on the Weasel King's face often enough when he attempted to trade insults with Draco.

"It's _Richard III_, imbecile," he snapped at the gormless Muggle, giving him the patented Malfoy sneer. "One of the many instances of Shakespeare elegantly expressing a universal truth."

_Something_ flickered in Granger's eyes at the expression on his face. Draco hurriedly rearranged his features into a more neutral expression. "May I escort you upstairs?" he asked her, with all of the impeccable courtesy his mother had drilled into him.

"Hermione, who is that?" the Muggle whined. "Are you dating him?"

Granger gave the redhead one last scathing look but didn't bother to respond. Instead, she placed her hand on Draco's offered arm and swept into the building with a queen-like dignity. Draco shot a triumphant look at the Muggle over the top of her curly head and deliberately shut the door in his face.

(x) (x) (x)

Once inside, Hermione stormed up the staircase.

"Hey, slow down," Malcolm called, having difficulty keeping up as she ascended despite his longer legs. "I don't want you to trip and hurt yourself."

At that, she whirled on the landing to face him. "Can you believe the nerve of that - that - "

"Unrepentant arsehole?" Malcolm helpfully supplied.

She smiled despite her anger. "I was going to call him a hypocritical git, but I like your phrasing better."

He put a comforting arm around shoulders as they continued up the stairs. "You deserve better than that, Hermione."

Briefly, she rested her head on his arm. "Thanks for saying that, Malcolm."

There was an awkward moment when they reached the third floor and the door to her flat. As she inserted her key in the lock, she gave an apologetic smile. "I was going to ask you in for tea, but now . . . "

He shrugged, with a charming smile. "I understand. Hopefully some other time."

"Yes, definitely." And Hermione indeed hoped there would be another time. She had thoroughly enjoyed herself, until Andy had ruined the evening.

Malcolm placed a hand on the doorframe and leaned towards her. "I know you don't approve of staying up all night on a first date, but what are your views on kissing?"

She tipped up her face in clear invitation. "I don't recall having formulated an opinion on the matter."

As Malcolm moved closer, her impression was one of warmth. Warm breath ghosting across her cheek, a warm hand curled around the nape of her neck, warm lips slanted over her own, a warm body pressing her against the doorframe. When the pressure of his lips and body against hers grew more insistent and she felt the tip of his tongue against the seam of her mouth, she put a hand on his shoulder to nudge him away.

"It's only the first date," she reminded him softly, their lips millimeters apart.

Reluctantly, he nodded and released her, first bestowing a quick peck on the tip of her nose. "Until next time, then."

(x) (x) (x)

Draco expected to be grabbed by the arm as soon as he exited the building that housed Granger's flat. What was unexpected was the surge of anger he felt upon realizing this unworthy Muggle had fully enjoyed the pleasures of her flesh, while he had been sent away with a mere closed-lip kiss.

"What did you do to her?" the red-haired wanker demanded.

"Shagged her up against the wall and left her begging for more," Draco told him, sneer firmly back in place.

Andy let go of his arm and swung wildly at his face. Draco blocked it with a wordless _Protego_. Despite casting it silently and with his wand concealed in his pocket, the shield charm was strong enough to knock the drunken Muggle onto the ground.

From his prone position, the ginger looked up at Draco, properly terrified. "You - you didn't touch me!"

"No, I didn't lay a finger on you," the blond wizard coldly agreed. With his height and the streetlight at his back, he knew he was an intimidating sight.

"But somehow you shoved me down. I felt it, like an invisible hand," the Muggle babbled.

"An invisible hand? Sounds to me like you're mental. Have you been hearing voices in your head, as well?" Draco taunted.

Andy's eyes widened as he scrambled to his feet, prudently putting some distance between himself and Draco. The redhead pointed at him with a shaking finger. "I recognize your voice!"

"Do you really? Are you going to say it was my voice you heard, telling you to fuck some blonde slapper in front of the best thing to ever happen to you?" Draco drawled, thoroughly enjoying himself. It was just like Weasel-baiting, with zero risk of being hexed.

"It _was_ you!" the Muggle gasped.

"Was it me?" Draco queried with mock innocence. "Do you really think anyone would believe that?"

He moved closer, so that he could hiss the next words in the ginger's face without risk of being overhead.

"Think about this, you Muggle bastard. I want you out of Hermione's life, and I _will_ make that happen, one way or another. If I can make you fuck another woman in front of your girlfriend, I can just as easily make you step in front of train, or make you jump off a bridge."

The blood drained from the other man's face, throwing his freckles into sharp relief.

"And if I can do it to you, I can do it to her as well," Draco finished, his voice implacable. The fiery, sharp pain in his entire arm gave lie to that claim even as he spoke, but Granger's old boyfriend didn't know that.

"Please, don't hurt her," he begged Draco.

"Get out of her life, and I won't hurt her," Draco offered. "Keep coming around, and I make no promises."

The Muggle looked he was going to cry. "Anything to keep Hermione safe," he agreed, swallowing hard.

"Don't fret. It's not forever," Draco consoled, calling after his retreating figure. "You can have her back in a year or two, not that much worse for wear."

(x) (x) (x)

Three floors up, Hermione was watching the two men, crouched down by the windowsill in her darkened living room.

Following Andy's unbalanced attempt to shove Malcolm, there was no further physical contact, but she could tell - even without being able to make out their words through the glass of the closed window - that it was a tense and hostile encounter.

Andy's fists were clenched and his face was red. Malcolm was even paler than usual, with a vicious expression marring his features. After a few minutes, Malcolm said something that caused Andy to walk away, shoulders hunched in defeat. Malcolm watched him go and then briefly looked up towards her flat, his expression blank and blond hair gleaming under the streetlight, before disappearing into the darkness.

That night, she dreamt of being tortured by a woman with wild, dark hair while Malcolm looked on, grey eyes cold and a sneer on his face.


	8. Chapter 8: Hermione's Birthday Wishes

**A/N: My sincerest thanks to everyone who** **reviewed the last chapter and bumped this story to over 100 reviews: Ramyfan, Colubrina, ASJS, dutch potterfan, surugasasa, anona, Weirdskylines, aryaaa, Matts Miss, v-x-y-zz, latina-pr, Grovek26, Aphrodite-Venus-u.k, IpreferJasper, Cheshyre Grin, Gullb3rg, sundance 1989, and guests. I always look forward to your reactions as I post each chapter. Warnings for this chapter - there is a passing reference to non-con and no Draco. He was going to be included, but it made the chapter too long. Next time!**

**_September 19, 2003_**

Hermione curled up on the couch, boxes of tissues and chocolates and wine glass close at hand, with Monty Python on the telly. It was her twenty-fourth birthday and she had decided to throw herself a pity party.

She was spending her birthday alone by choice. Malcolm had been an attentive presence in her life over the past couple weeks, and she had no doubt he would have been delighted to treat her to a lavish birthday celebration. However, she hadn't told him today was her birthday.

Two birthday cards and their enclosures lay on the coffee table. She picked up the first and re-read a warm, loving note from her godparents, expressing pride in her accomplishments and eagerness to see her again. They had sent an extremely generous Selfridges gift certificate, but it was the second enclosure that brought tears to her eyes.

It was a photo of a much younger Hermione, smiling happily at the camera between two boys, with their friendly arms slung over her shoulders. From her bushy hair and overbite, Hermione deduced it had been taken when she was thirteen or so, still in that awkward stage of early adolescence. She recognized the background - the picture had been taken at King's Cross station. Monica wrote that she had found it wedged underneath a drawer when cleaning out an old bookcase recently shipped from storage in England, and thought that Hermione might like the picture of her old school chums.

She could remember very little about the dark haired, green-eyed boy to her left in the photo, but she knew Harry had been like the brother she never had, and they had protected and looked out for each other from the time they were eleven. Hermione was aware that he had died, too young, though she could not recall attending his funeral or where he was buried. That hurt, because she wanted desperately to visit his grave, both to pay her respects and see if it would spark any further memories.

Hermione drew a complete and utter blank looking the second boy, other than a faint feeling of resentment. That, however, might be attributed to his carroty-red hair, similar to Andy's. Whatever the reason, Hermione decided she did not want to see the redhead's face, so she folded the picture before placing it a frame, leaving only Harry and herself visible.

The second birthday card chased away her melancholy and replaced it with anger. Andy had sent her a birthday card, enclosing what he apparently thought was a heartfelt plea for forgiveness - and caution.

She wondered if he had written it out in draft and then recopied it, because his sloppy penmanship was more legible than usual. The first page consisted of the same tripe she had heard from him before: he was sorry, he missed her, his behavior was inexcusable, it would never happen again. On the second page, though, Andy revealed himself to be a dog in the manger:

_Hermione, as much as I want to see you (especially on your birthday - do you remember what a great time we had last year?), I won't seek you out again. _

_You need to know why. It's not because I don't care about you, but because I do. That blond bloke you're seeing - he's trouble. There's something very, very off about him. He threatened to hurt you if I kept trying to see you, and I'm afraid he meant it. Please be careful. _

_If you ever need my help, or just want to talk, you know where to find me. I'll believe anything you have to say, even if you think it's barmy. I love you. _

_- Andy_

Upon a second reading, Hermione decided that tearing the letter into little pieces before throwing it in the rubbish wasn't good enough. She was going to burn it until nothing was left but ashes.

Putting her thought into action, she reached over to the side table and snatched a book of matches from the drawer. She marched over to the flat's tiny fireplace, absolutely furious at Andy for what he had written about Malcolm. Hermione crumpled the paper and flung it down into the grate. Crouching down, she pulled a match from the box. It ignited before she could strike it against the box, flaring up fiercely.

She straightened and watched Andy's libelous letter burn, blowing lightly on her scorched fingertips. _But truth is a defense to libel, _her subconscious supplied. Hermione wanted to scream at the unhelpful legalism and her own ambivalent mind. She had always valued logic over intuition. Normally, she could reconcile the two, but when it came to Malcolm, her mind was experiencing irreconcilable differences.

Andy was wrong about Malcolm hurting her. She knew that with bone-deep certainty, and her instincts her had been borne out by Malcolm's behavior. He had been in her flat several times now. While he had not always been a perfect gentleman - at her express invitation - he had always respected her boundaries. Hermione had no fear that Malcolm would hurt her when they were alone. If she had any concerns in that respect, it was that she might hurt _him_. Hermione had found herself fantasizing about pulling his silky hair, raking her nails down his back, even slapping him across the face.

She conceded that Andy very well could be correct in stating that Malcolm was trouble, and might even be telling the truth about his threats. There was an air of danger about Malcolm Foy, and it attracted her like a moth to a flame.

She pulled another match from the box and held it up experimentally. "Happy birthday to me," she said, and then added the odd word that had flashed into her mind minutes before. "_Incendio."_

Nothing happened.

(x) (x) (x)

In a neighborhood of rundown but still imposing townhouses only a few miles away from Hermione's flat, the Order of the Phoenix was meeting at 12 Grimmauld Place. Ginny Potter Thomas had inherited the place when Harry died but immediately moved out, adamant that the old House of Black was no place to raise a child. Kreacher remained on, as a desultory and resentful caretaker. Grimmauld Place was now effectively abandoned once again, used only every couple of months for Order meetings.

Minerva McGonagall stepped through the fireplace into the grimy, old-fashioned kitchen, followed by the rest of the Hogwarts contingent. Looking around the room, she saw that all of the Weasleys and their spouses were present, except for Charlie Weasley, still living in Romania, and Molly Weasley, who was at the Burrow minding the ever-growing brood of Weasley grandchildren.

Of the Order's non-Weasley members - and she reflected sadly there were only a handful of the old guard who had survived two wizarding Wars - all were accounted for except Shacklebolt, who was usually too busy to attend. In her own mind, Minerva did not afford him the respect of a title. Kingsley's willingness to sacrifice more than forty Muggle-born witches and wizards for "peace in our time" still grated on her, no matter how effective that bargain had been.

"May we begin?" Arthur Weasley requested, lightly tapping a spoon against his tankard to gain the company's attention. In Kingsley's absence, he led the meetings as his deputy. Around the table, conversation quieted and heads turned in his direction.

"I thought we could start off with a status report on the Muggle-born exiles," Arthur suggested, with his usual mild manner. Following a few nods of agreement, he gestured to Hestia Jones to begin.

Within a couple of months of the first "repatriations," the Order had voted to keep an eye on the Obliviated witches and wizards now living in the Muggle world, to ensure the Vows were holding and none were being abused by Death Eaters. It had been a challenge to find the Muggle-borns at first, with the care the Death Eaters had taken care to ward their charges' residences. Even with surreptitious access to the Ministry's classified records, courtesy of Kingsley, it had taken the Order almost a year to locate all of them.

Once found, Muggle-raised Dean Thomas had come up with an ingenious way to keep tabs on the Muggle-borns, through a simple tracking spell placed on a driving license or, for the youngest, a student identification card. As Dean pointed out, Muggles almost always carried these cards with them outside the home, making it easy to engineer a chance meeting every couple months or so. And while a paranoid Death Eater might check a person for a tracking spell, a pure-blooded wizard would never think to check a Muggle-issued identification document.

Minerva listened with half an ear to the updates on the older Muggle-borns, all of whom had preceded her tenure at Hogwarts. She paid closer attention when any of her former students were mentioned, and was heartened by Filius's report that Cho Chang was doing extremely well in her chosen profession as a Muggle Healer. He had posed as a patient with a possible concussion from falling off a ladder and was squeakily enthused about his former Ravenclaw's bedside manner.

She paid closest attention to the reports on her ex-Gryffindors, like the one that was being given now.

"'Ermione was in France with her parents on holiday, and zey seemed very happy to be together. Ze French Ministry has no restrictions on speaking with Muggle-borns, so I spoke with her a bit about ze sightseeing." Fleur Weasley tossed her shimmering blonde hair as she spoke, every man in the room hanging off her words. "I zink, though, that she has suffered ze heartbreak, or at least ze break-up. Her boyfriend was not zere and 'Ermione seemed sad." Fleur gave a Gallic shrug. "Bah, men!"

"Good! I could tell he was a tosser," Ron Weasley declared in a loud voice, oblivious to the hurt look on his wife Lavender's face.

Minerva shook her head. Some things never changed. She spoke up, adding her own intelligence about Hermione. "The new Head Girl spoke with her on the first of September, at King's Cross station."

Around the room, heads popped up and eyes widened at the implications. "Blimey," Ron breathed, "does 'Mione remember?"

"More than she should, apparently," Minerva said, unable to keep a smile out of her voice. "Miss Finnigan told me that Hermione did not seem to remember magic _per se_, but has some recognition, at least, of people in the wizarding world."

"That's very interesting, because Katie didn't remember me at all," Angelina Johnson Weasley offered.

Unlike the other Order members, who rotated their surveillance responsibilities to ensure they did not become too familiar to the Muggle-borns, Angelina always reported on Katie Bell. Even before the Order had decided to take action, Angelina had defied the Ministry's ban on any contact with the repatriated witches and wizards and sought out her best friend in the Muggle world.

"Katie also doesn't recognize any names," Angelina continued, toying thoughtfully with one braided strand of her hair. "I've tried dropping names of our old Quidditch teammates and Gryffindor housemates, but it's like she'd never heard of them."

"Yeah, well, it was Hermione who Obliviated her. She's always been a damn sight better at magic than the inbred Ferret," Ron sneered.

"Hear, hear!" Hagrid bellowed.

"How's Katie doing otherwise?" Lee Jordan asked.

"She's doing well," Angelina began, before she was interrupted by the Floo.

Minister Shacklebolt stepped through the greenish flames. "Please, carry on," he instructed, with a politician's practiced smile.

"Katie's expecting another baby, due in January," Angelina announced, to whoops and hollers from the Order. "_And_ her little girl is displaying accidental magic just about every time she and little Freddy are together at the playground. It's a challenge covering up for them!"

"So that Umbridge cow can take 'er tripe about Muggleborns stealing magic and shove it up her arse!" Mundungus Fletcher hollered.

"Thank you, Dung, for that lovely imagery," Bill Weasley offered with a wry grin, a possessive arm around his beautiful wife.

"Oi!" George exclaimed, when the noise died down. "Is that Muggle bloke she's with going to put a ring on her finger now that he's gotten her up the duff a second time?"

Angelina gave her husband a sharp look in rebuke. "I've told you, George, things aren't as conservative in the Muggle world. Katie's in a committed partnership that works for her. If you'd like to talk about rings, she has a honking great ruby that's twice the size of any stone you've ever bought me!"

George looked both unconvinced and indignant, but Kingsley's deep voice cut off any further marital squabbling.

"Speaking of Undersecretary Umbridge," he held up his hand to silence the chorus of catcalls, "she informs me that she received a request from the younger Theodore Nott, seeking official Ministry permission to reverse the Obliviation performed on Cho Chang."

"Nothing would make me happier," Professor Flitwick offered instantly.

Minister Shacklebolt shook his head in regret. "I'm afraid that Dolores denied the application out of hand, Filius."

"And you won't overrule her?" Bill Weasley asked with a frown.

"I prefer to permit my undersecretaries to operate with some autonomy, particularly in light of the broad governing coalition," Kingsley stated.

Having dealt with the Hogwarts Board of Governors for several years, Minerva had no trouble discerning the political realities behind the Minister's statement. His hands were tied so long as Umbridge retained the support of the former Death Eaters, but Kingsley would give her enough rope to hang herself and would act if that support ever wavered.

"However, the Undersecretary indicated she might reconsider her decision if Mr. Nott could provide some proof that Cho has wizarding blood in her family tree," Kingsley continued.

"What would possibly satisfy _her_?" Minerva asked in a voice dripping with contempt.

"A reliable source tells me that Undersecretary Umbridge remains convinced that magical children must have at least one magical parent," Kingsley stated. "Therefore, she is preparing a resolution for the Wizengamot's consideration that would revisit the blood status of any exiled Muggle-borns who have magical children."

"Is she sincere, or is this just an attempt to get access to the Hogwarts scroll?" Minerva asked with suspicion.

"So according to the Toad, Katie's daughter could be an admission ticket back to the wizarding world?" Lee Jordan asked, disturbed.

"In a nutshell, yes," the Minister confirmed. "Her proposal has some support among the former Death Eaters, which makes me suspect some of them may have children with Muggle women."

"What, those they raped but didn't murder?" George Weasley snarled.

"Zat eez disgusting!" Fleur Weasley declared, to general agreement.

Shacklebolt deliberately made his way over to the chair next to Minerva as the speculation over Theo Nott's request, Umbridge's motives, and secret Death Eater children subsided and the Muggle-born status reports resumed.

"Do you have a moment, Headmistress?" he asked in an undertone. "Angelina's news and recent events at the Ministry jogged my mind about something I wished to ask you."

She gave him a curt nod.

"There is one aspect of Hermione Granger's Vow with the younger Malfoy that has always concerned me," Kingsley continued gravely.

"Just the one, Minister?" Minerva tartly retorted. "I should think the entire wretched situation should be of concern to you."

"Please, let's not spend our time revisiting that well-trodden ground," Shacklebolt pleaded. "Who came up with the language of her Vow?"

"Miss Granger, Professor Binns and myself crafted the language used for all of the Unbreakable Vows," she answered crisply.

"My apologies, Professor McGonagall, for being unclear," Kingsley said. "I was referring to the unique portion of Miss Granger's Vow, where Mr. Malfoy undertook to extend the standard set of promises to her 'blood relatives in the first degree.' Who selected that phrase?"

"I believe Hermione proposed the language and the Malfoys accepted it," she answered, puzzled at the urgency in the Minister's voice. "She was concerned about using the term 'parents,' because she wouldn't remember them as such, but the Malfoys balked at 'blood relatives' without limitation because they did not want Draco bound to protect some hypothetical fourth cousin Hermione might not even know about."

"Ah, that makes sense," Shacklebolt spoke with some relief.

Minerva's curiosity got the better of her. "Why were you concerned about the wording?"

"Because, Minerva, blood relatives in the first degree include children, and I have yet to meet a Malfoy who acts for any reason other than self-interest," Kingsley pronounced. "But you have reassured me that Miss Granger merely drove a careful bargain."

The Headmistress nodded, wanting to believe that reassurance herself.

"Are there any other items of business to discuss?" the Minister raised his voice to ask the assembled Order members. He received a chorus of "nos" and shaken heads in response.

Ginny Potter heaved herself to her feet, her belly immense even though her twins were not due until late October.

"I propose that we conclude with a toast, Minister," she declared in a clear voice, lifting her mug of hot chocolate high. "Today is Hermione's birthday, so I say we raise our glasses to her, a brilliant witch who was like a sister to me and who was always there when Harry needed her."

Across the room, Minerva could see Ronald Weasley's ears redden, though she could not tell whether it was the result of having forgotten Hermione's birthday or his sister's reminder that he had abandoned Harry on their Horcrux hunt.

"Hermione may be gone from our world, for now, but she is not forgotten," Ginny concluded.

Dull clinks and clanks of glass and pewter sounded throughout the room as the Order of the Phoenix echoed Ginny's toast. "Gone, but not forgotten."


	9. Chapter 9: Mother Knows Best

**A/N: Many, many thanks to those who read and especially those who reviewed the last chapter (Gunnhildde, naschwartz614, SusanMarieS (multiple chapters!) ASJS, Gingercat55, FaeBreeze, surugasasa, mythzzrosenov, Matts Miss, dutch potterfan, Thelestris (who noted correctly that Hermione is applying to three prestigious schools for her Ph.D. - Oxbridge was shorthand rather than a typo), Gullb3rg, Ramyfan, Aphrodite-Venus-u.k, v-x-y-zz, Colubrina and guests). I appreciate your patience, especially with a transitional chapter. I love hearing from you and do take your feedback into account!**

**Potential triggers: This chapter contains passing references to non-con and pregnancy loss/difficulties. It also contains over-the-top snobbishness, ****_i.e_****., Narcissa Malfoy. **

**_September 21, 2003_**

"Draco, dearest, are you _humming_?" Narcissa's cultured accent cut through the quiet of the Manor's dining room.

Draco grinned at his mother from the sideboard, where he was busy helping himself to eggs and bacon. "Indeed I am, Mum."

The last couple of weeks had been rather brilliant. He hadn't seen Granger every day - she was too busy with her research studies and too skittish about falling into a rebound relationship - but he had seen her several times and enjoyed every one of their excursions. Yesterday afternoon they had gone to the British Museum, followed by dinner at a Japanese noodle house, and capped off with a heated snog on Granger's sofa.

He wasn't yet sleeping with her, but things were progressing nicely. Draco hadn't even been thrown off by the photo of Potter she had unearthed from somewhere and placed in a frame on her bookshelf. Truth be told, he had found it rather titillating to remove Granger's blouse and fondle her breasts under Scarhead's unseeing gaze.

"What is that tune? It sounds _foreign _to me." Narcissa did not scrunch her nose or brow, due to fear of wrinkles, but her tone conveyed distaste.

"It is, in a manner of speaking," Draco said cheerfully. "Rather catchy, don't you think?" He had heard the Muggle pop song last night at dinner and it had been in his head ever since. With Lucius having a bit of a lie-in on this Sunday morning, and Astoria never rising before noon, Draco could afford to be a bit cheeky about his sojourns into the Muggle world.

Narcissa sniffed her disapproval in response. "Since it is an otherwise dreary day, I suppose I must assume that you and Astoria have mended your fences?"

"No, Mother, you should assume nothing of the sort," Draco told her in a much cooler tone. To date, Lucius had not let up on his efforts to force a reconciliation with Astoria, and Draco did not want his formidable mother to join forces with his father.

"Good."

"Pardon me?" Draco wasn't certain he had heard that correctly.

"It was a simple, straightforward, one-syllable answer. Did I fail to enunciate?" Narcissa asked.

"Of course not, Mother." Except that "simple" and "straightforward" were not words one typically associated with Narcissa Malfoy.

"Mipsy," she called.

The little house-elf appeared with a "pop" and bowed low. "Mipsy is here, Mistress."

"I want you to take over serving in the dining room, Mipsy. You may instruct the other elves to clean up the kitchen, and tell them to make sure they scrub the floor very thoroughly."

"Yes, Mistress!" Mipsy popped away, eager to carry out Narcissa's orders.

"Now that we may speak in confidence, I shall tell you that I have always thought Astoria to be a silly little trollop, just conniving enough to entrap you into marriage. She lacks the intelligence, discretion, and loyalty I had hoped you would find in your wife."

Draco was stunned by his mother's harsh but accurate condemnation of his wife. He had always thought that Narcissa and Astoria got along swimmingly.

"I never knew you felt that way about her, Mother." Draco narrowed his eyes. He had not believed Astoria when she claimed Narcissa had given her a green light for her infidelity, but it now seemed plausible that his mother might have done so, purely to undermine his wife. "Did you encourage Astoria to cheat on me?"

"She told you that I encouraged her to be unfaithful?" Narcissa asked, coldly and quietly furious.

"Astoria said that you did not care about your putative grandchild's bloodlines, so long as he or she is raised as a Malfoy," Draco repeated what his wife had told him.

"Foolish girl," Narcissa hissed. "I was conveying a warning that she is not indispensable, not granting her a license to stray. I swear to Salazar, the Sorting Hat should have placed her in Hufflepuff for sheer stupidity, notwithstanding her lineage!"

She reached out and seized Draco's hand, her fingers cool against his own. "I swear to you, my son, I would never encourage anyone to betray you. Nor would I condone any Malfoy wife willingly breaking her marital vows."

He nodded, convinced by her unusually emotional response and feeling cold at the one qualification she had added. Draco tried never to think about what might have happened to his beautiful, brittle mother when she forced to play hostess to a house full of Death Eaters, or what might have driven her to defy the Dark Lord. Instead, he curled his fingers around hers and offered what little comfort he could. "I believe you, Mother."

"Now that we have that out of way," Narcissa disengaged her hand in a brisk motion, clearly eager to change the subject, "did you enjoy a pleasant evening with Miss Granger last night?"

Through sheer effort of will, Draco neither spit out not choked upon the tea he had just sipped.

"Have you been using Legilemency on me?" he demanded, deciding that offense would be the best defense.

"Don't be so accusatory, darling. I haven't used Legilemency on you since you were sixteen," Narcissa responded.

Draco knew his mother's decision to refrain from reading his mind was a matter of practicality rather than respect for his privacy. At sixteen, Professor Snape had taught him Occlumency. "Good to know my mental shields are holding," he said lightly.

"They provide no defense against a mother's intuition, Draco. So, how is Miss Granger enjoying the Muggle world?"

"I have no idea, Mother." Draco was not yet willing to admit to his proper and refined mother that he was aspiring to a sexual relationship with a Mudblood.

"Really?" Narcissa raised a skeptical eyebrow and began ticking off the evidence on her fingertips. "You have been gone from the Manor most evenings for the past few weeks, you are humming a Muggle tune, and when you came in last night, you had a love bite showing above your collar. For the second time in a week, I might add."

Draco refrained from touching the now-Healed spot on his neck, silently cursing his mother's powers of observation and Granger's propensity for marking him.

His mother continued, relentlessly. "If you had been with a witch at some disreputable establishment in Knockturn Alley, you would have Healed the mark before returning home, and you would never lower yourself to consort with a Muggle. That leaves a Muggle-born witch as the only logical option."

Unable to refute her logic, Draco prudently stayed silent.

"So, what did you do to celebrate Miss Granger's birthday this weekend?" Narcissa asked, her blue eyes bright. "These little occasions are so important when you are wooing a woman, so I trust you took full advantage of the opportunity."

"Err, I . . . that is - "

"You forgot," Narcissa snapped.

"She didn't tell me it was her birthday!" Draco protested. "How in Merlin's name was I supposed to know?"

"You went to school with the girl for seven years," Narcissa tut-tutted. "Did all of her birthday parties at the Gryffindor table somehow escape your notice?"

"Six years," Draco muttered. "She was gone for seventh year, and I was rather occupied the prior year. And the stupid Gryffindors were always celebrating one thing or another."

Narcissa shook her head in clear disappointment. "Draco, if you are involved - or even aspire to be involved - with a woman, it should be elementary that you discover her birthday, as well as her favorite color, her favorite flower, and her favorite gemstone. You know the answers to these questions for Astoria, do you not?"

Effortlessly, he rattled them off: "October 8, black, stargazer lilies, and diamonds."

"And for Miss Granger?"

Sullenly, he gave it his best guess. "Her birthday falls between the fifteenth and twentieth of September, since I've clearly missed it; she likes red roses; red is her favorite color; and rubies are her favorite gem."

Narcissa snapped her fingers impatiently. "Mipsy! Answer my questions. Correctly, if you please."

The house-elf reappeared and bowed low, addressing her responses to the floor. "Miss's birthday is on the nineteenth of September. Young Master is correct as to Miss's favorite flower, but," Mipsy gulped and forced the contradiction of Draco past her clenched teeth, "periwinkle is Miss's favorite color, and she is liking sapphires best."

"That will be all, Mipsy," Narcissa dismissed the elf. "And thank you," she added as an afterthought.

On the heels of the elf's departure, Narcissa gave him a stern look of reprimand.

"Miss Granger agreed to enter into a Vow with you only due to my direct intercession. I had to sit down to tea and negotiate with her as though she were an equal. I had to _compromise_ with her. Do not muck this up, Draco."

Draco decided to provoke his mother, as a possible method to wring the truth out of her. "Are you truly suggesting that I court Granger like a proper witch? She's a Mudblood, good for only one thing."

Narcissa gave him a withering look. "She isn't just good for entertainment at a Dark revel. Mudblood or not, she may be able to break Voldemort's curse."

"What do you mean, Mother?" Draco inquired, not hopeful of receiving a response. So far this morning, their exchange of confidences had been heavily lopsided in her favor. "Theo's father told him the Dark Lord died before he could share the counter-curse with anyone."

Narcissa sneered. "I should be very much surprised if a counter-curse ever existed. It is my belief," she continued grimly, "that the Dark Lord wanted to eradicate the old pure-blood families."

"But we were his most loyal supporters." Draco made the token protest.

"Tom Riddle," she spat the name, "was nothing more than a half-Muggle bastard. And he was corrosively envious of those of us with pure blood. Think about what he did, Draco. He murdered those from the oldest pure-blood families, even my own cousin, with no more thought than if they were Muggles. Not to mention the suicide mission he sent you on at the age of sixteen."

Draco nodded as she continued. Unlike his father, who remained blinded by ideology, his mother was much more clear-eyed when it came to Voldemort and his agenda.

"I have no doubt that half-blooded snake would have derived a profound enjoyment from forcing his loyal supporters to choose between sullying their bloodlines and becoming half-bloods like him, or dying out altogether," Narcissa concluded. "Fortunately, this family is not without political influence, despite some recent missteps in judgement."

Based on his mother's cat-like smile, Draco made an educated guess. "You were responsible for 'Potter's Law,' weren't you? The one that declares that any child of a wizard and witch is a pure-blood?"

Narcissa's grin grew even more feline. "My soft spot for the Potter boy is well-known. Of course I would support a law affording him the status of a pure-blood wizard, even if his mother _was_ a filthy Muggle-born. For purely altruistic reasons, of course."

"Of course," Draco echoed, impressed at his mother's foresight. She had taken this step years ago, when the consequences of the Dark Lord's curse had barely begun to manifest.

"Do what you must to get the Granger girl to accept you in her bed, Draco. She holds the future of our family in her unworthy hands."

"I have it under control, Mother."

"Do you, my son? The fact that she chose not to tell you about her birthday does not bode well for your suit," Narcissa pointed out. "If the Mudblood rejects you, you'll be forced procreate with a Muggle and pray to Merlin that your half-blood children are not Squibs."

"Granger won't reject me," Draco said with confidence.

Narcissa sipped thoughtfully at her tea. "She is a very stubborn girl."

"It will be fine, Mother," he insisted. After a pause, he went on in a low voice, feeling once again like a little boy confessing a shameful fear of the dark. "Though . . . what if I can't get her pregnant? I haven't exactly the best track record with Astoria."

For the second time in a morning, possibly a Malfoy record, his mother took his hand in her own. "Draco, despite the Dark Lord's curse, you have been able to impregnate your wife, quickly and more than once. Indeed, when you first married, I dared to hope little Scorpius had evaded the curse."

Both of them were quiet for a moment, thinking of the tiniest tomb in the Malfoy crypt. His mother went on, with the barest hint of hoarseness to her voice. "Due to Miss Granger's blood status, your child with her will fall outside the Dark Lord's curse. During the War, she assured me she did not use any Dark spells. There is no reason why she cannot have a viable pregnancy and give birth to a healthy heir."

Narcissa wasn't finished. "I married your father at eighteen, right out of Hogwarts. It took us six years of trying before we had you, and you were my first and only pregnancy."

"I appreciate that, Mother." And Draco truly did, knowing that his father also had struggled with the basic biological task of siring the next generation.

His mother's calculating look was back. "Miss Granger just turned twenty-four, did she not?"

"Yes, she was the oldest in our year."

Narcissa smiled. "She is now the same age I was when I had you. Perhaps you should go to Diagon Alley this afternoon and buy a belated birthday present before you see her again this evening."

"I'll do that. Maybe there's something at Flourish and Blotts she'd like that falls outside the Statute of Secrecy."

"A book? I think not," his mother asserted with delicate contempt. "You should buy her jewelry. Nothing expresses affection so well as goblin-wrought platinum. Goldnuk's has an excellent selection of charmed pendants and bracelets."

It was a command gracefully disguised as a suggestion, and Draco acquiesced. "Thanks, Mum. I'll check it out."

As he rose to go, Narcissa called him back. "Oh, and Draco?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"I very much look forward to having a child here at the Manor to spoil."

**A/N: To answer a reviewer's question as to how the Order hasn't noticed Death Eaters hanging around, keep in mind that wards prevent the Order from visiting any Muggle-borns at home, or even finding where they live. Also, Angelina is visiting with Katie at** **the playground and other kiddy venues, while Flint is at work; Order members typically pose as patients and see Cho at a hospital, plus Nott is unobtrusive; and the Order's last check-in on Hermione was before Malfoy waltzed into her Muggle life. However, she has been seen with her Muggle boyfriend in the past, so it could happen in the future . . .**


	10. Chapter 10: The Flip of a Knut

**A/N: Thanks to those who reviewed since the last chapter! Elased, Colubrina, naschwartz614, ASJS, surugasasa, DinaTheCat, Cat130, anneea3077, v-x-y-zz, SusanMarieS,dutch potterfan, latina-pr, NNMous, Clarabelle (sorry! I am sometimes slow to moderate anonymous reviews), Aphrodite-Venus-u.k (with an apropos song suggestion), dragonwingedangel, CheshyreGrin, and guests: I always enjoy hearing from you, both familiar names and new reviewers.**

**_October 7, 2003_**

Draco and Theo Nott were concluding a meeting at the solicitor's small office just off Diagon Alley. "I can handle creation of the partnership for you easily enough, but I'll need to put you in touch with a Muggle specialist on the intellectual property issues," Theo explained.

"Fine," Draco agreed. "Make the appointment under my Muggle name. It's for Granger, anyways. She's got this brilliant idea about adapting the Blood-Replenishing Potion for Muggle use that could practically mint money, but she's still all about serving the greater good."

Before he could expand on that thought, someone rapped on the door.

"Come in," Theo called with a faint frown. Draco knew he was not expecting any clients; instead, they were planning on going together to the Black Cat and meeting Marcus Flint there for lunch.

Instead, Flint bounced - there was no other word for it - into Nott's office and shoved a few files aside to perch on the solicitor's desk. He beamed at the other two men. "It's been the best fucking day of my life," he announced.

"I thought you already had the best day of your life, on Saint Scarhead's Day," Draco said, unamused.

He had been in a sour mood for the past couple weeks, and it was Granger's fault. If he hadn't Obliviated her himself, he would have thought that the Gryffindor princess remembered exactly who he was and was being a cock tease for the express purpose of driving him around the twist. Going home at night to Astoria's whiny mouth was no real consolation, either. Flint and Nott, tossers that they were, had been taunting rather than sympathetic.

"I did, wanker, but _my_ life just keeps improving," Flint told him, enthusiasm undampened. "Here, check this out."

Marcus reached into his jacket pocket and handed over a photograph for their inspection. "We got this from Katie's obstetrician this morning."

As Nott glanced at the photo, Flint turned to Draco, who had raised an eyebrow at the unfamiliar word. "An obstetrician is the kind of Muggle Healer you see when you're preggers," Flint explained.

"What is it?" Draco asked in genuine confusion, turning the grainy, black and white photo Nott had relinquished this way and that. It was clearly Muggle in nature, since the image wasn't moving, but he had no idea what it depicted.

"It's a sonogram picture," Theo informed him with a superior air. "It's a type of Muggle technology that uses sound waves so their Healers can view a fetus _in utero."_

"How do you know all this Muggle medical shite?" Draco asked. "You're a wizard and a solicitor, for Salazar's sake!"

Theo shrugged. "Cho had a rotation on the maternity ward earlier this year. I listen." He turned to Flint. "So I take it your antenatal appointment went well?"

"Fuck, yeah!" Marcus exclaimed, gesturing towards the picture. "That's my son. My fucking heir!"

"How can you tell it's a boy?" Draco inquired, as he turned the picture right side up. "I can't even tell that it's human."

"Look!" Flint jabbed his finger at an arrow on the image. "That's pointing straight at his pecker!"

Draco squinted in an exaggerated manner. "Yeah, the sprog definitely takes after you. I can barely see anything between his legs. Still, my felicitations."

"Arsehole," Flint said, good-humoredly. "You've been in the locker room with me. You should know I'm hung like an Abraxan stallion."

"I know no such thing," Draco protested with a smirk. "So far as I'm concerned, your genitalia is like a thestral's - completely invisible to anyone who hasn't suffered a horrific experience."

Flint shook his head, regretfully. "I always suspected you were blind as a bat, Malfoy. We should have stolen Potter's specs for you. Maybe then you might have caught the Snitch a bit more often, eh?"

"Are you two quite done?" Nott asked, reverting to solicitor mode. "Congratulations on the prospective birth of your son, Marcus."

"Thanks, mate!" Flint cheerfully acknowledged.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," he asked, with a sudden formality, "will you stand as my son's godfather?"

"Of course. I should be honored." Draco instantly responded. He _was _honored. Godparents in the wizarding world played an important role: Flint was effectively asking him to be his son's social and professional sponsor, as well as the boy's guardian should anything happen to his parents.

He gave a sidelong look to Nott, hoping he would not feel slighted. The solicitor caught the look and returned a sardonic grin. "You aren't that special, Malfoy, and my tender feelings aren't even bruised. I'm Isabelle's godfather, and it's not like there are any other wizards who are in on Flint's secret he could ask."

"Puh-leeze, Nott. I would ask Drake to be my sprog's godfather even if everyone in the world knew. I need to make sure my kid gets the best presents growing up!" Flint chuckled.

"There's a Muggle ceremony, so I'll brief you on what to expect," Theo offered.

Draco nodded his thanks. "Who is going to be the godmother, Flint?"

"Dunno," his former captain shrugged. "One of Katie's friends. Some Muggle bird named Angie."

Flint looked at his watch. "Are you tossers okay with pushing back lunch today? I need to go and buy something sparkly for Katie. You know, the mother of my heir." He grinned cockily, unable to keep himself from gloating.

"I'll come with you," Draco volunteered. "I've witnessed your lack of taste when it comes to broomsticks, and I would hate to see how that spills over into jewelry."

Flint jokingly punched his arm. "Katie has no complaints."

"Well, she is a Gryffindor and sleeping with you, so that's not exactly a recommendation."

He dodged as Flint attempted to punch his arm again. "Nott, are you coming with us?"

"Why not?" the third man shrugged. "Who else is going to keep you two in check?"

(x) (x) (x)

The discreet goblin jewelers and sales assistants at Goldnuk's did not betray, by so much as a blink, that Draco had been to their establishment twice in the past couple weeks, first to commission and then to pick up an exquisite piece of jewelry. The only hint of recognition was that Goldnuk himself, flanked by two minions, came over to the three wizards.

"May we help you?" inquired the goblin proprietor.

"I'm looking for rubies," Flint announced. "Either earrings or a necklace, to match a ring."

After a low-voiced conversation in Gobbledegook, Goldnuk deputized the goblin on his left. "Bogrud will assist you. He is familiar with the ring."

Bogrud bowed politely. "I remember it well. A three-carat, blood-red stone from Moguk, set in gold filigree with a Muggle proverb inscribed on the band. 'Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price _is_ far above rubies.'"

Draco winced at the mental image of the gaudy Gryffindorish bauble.

"That's the one," Flint confirmed, "Katie's push present after she had Isabelle."

"This way, if you will." The goblin escorted them towards a case further in the shop, while Nott wandered off to browse on his own.

"What about this?" Flint asked, pointing to a three-stranded monstrosity that combined rubies with emeralds and diamonds.

Draco shook his head. "I never bought into that House unity bollocks. Besides, would she have any occasion to wear it?"

Reluctantly, Flint put it back in the case. His taste really was laughably bad, Draco thought.

"How about this one?" Marcus pointed to a large pear-shaped pendant covered in shiny diamond chips, with tiny rubies spelling out the letter "K."

Draco blinked. "It's blinding me," he complained. "That is not a gift to buy for a woman you love."

A cynical smile then crossed his face. "Can you create this with any letter and gemstone?" he asked the goblin.

At Bogrud's affirmative, Draco's smile became positively evil. "I'd like the letter 'A' done in garnets, please. Is it possible to have it by tomorrow for my wife's birthday?"

"Certainly, sir. We can have it ready before you leave this afternoon, unless you require special enchantments for this piece."

The jewelry he had bought for Granger was imbued with two complex charms, one suggested by his mother to engender trust, and the other suggested by Mipsy to relieve anxiety. The compassionate little elf had spent an afternoon in the Manor's vast attics, searching for a stained and discarded Persian rug so that Granger's blood could be forged into the platinum to target the enchantments to her. Astoria would not require such an effort.

"No, just the standard anti-theft charm, if you please."

The goblin bowed slightly. "Of course, sir. I should advise you that rubies would have a much greater clarity and depth, for not an exorbitantly greater cost."

"No, no," Draco shook his head. "Given that charming Muggle saying you quoted earlier, it has to be garnets."

Bogrud, with an impassive expression, beckoned another goblin over and conveyed Draco's order before returning his attention to Flint. "Would you like to see some earrings?"

Happily, the earrings were much less gaudy, and Draco was able to steer Flint in the direction of a pair of square-cut rubies, set in a simple gold backing.

As Bogrud boxed and wrapped the earrings, Theo came over, looking tense and followed by his own goblin jeweler bearing a velvet tray of rings.

"I'd like to get your opinion on something, Malfoy," Theo requested, looking pale.

"Of course, Nott."

"Which of these do you think your mother would like best?"

Looking down at the three diamond solitaire rings sparkling against the black velvet, Draco raised his brows. "I hate to crush your hopes, Theo, but my mother is irrevocably attached to my father, even if he is a right bastard."

"Don't be stupid, Malfoy. I'm not looking to propose to your mother. It's just that," Nott dropped his voice, "Cho reminds me of Narcissa in some ways, and I think they would share the same taste in engagement rings."

Theo had provided valuable assistance in approaching Granger, so Draco bit back the automatic comment that his mother was _nothing_ like a Mudblood. Instead, he considered the request objectively. All three of the rings were coldly and austerely beautiful, with superbly faceted diamonds set in platinum, and he could see his mother wearing any of them.

"This one," he said after a moment's thought, pointing to the one in the middle. It was not the largest diamond - though it was by no means small - but the bluish color and clarity were breathtaking. "My mother would like this the best."

"Thank you," Nott said sincerely. "I'll take it," he told the goblin.

"You really are serious about Chang, aren't you?" Flint asked.

"I intend to do the right thing by her this time," Theo affirmed, his voice almost grim.

He started laughing, though, when the goblin returned with Astoria's pendant for Draco to inspect. "You're giving your wife a scarlet 'A' to wear around her neck? That's bloody perfect!"

"What's so funny?" Flint asked, puzzled. "Is there something wrong with the necklace? I actually liked that one."

"It's a Muggle literature thing. Probably Draco and I, and now you, are the only pure-bloods who will get it, but he's publicly declaring his wife to be an adulteress."

Flint smirked. "That's vintage Malfoy, it is. But I thought you and Astoria were getting along alright?"

Draco smirked. "She's very, very sorry about cheating and has repeatedly apologized on her knees. But I still don't plan to forgive her."

"So you have your wife sucking you off because your wannabe mistress won't put out? That's fucked up!" Flint commented, with more than a hint of admiration. "Still, you're a lucky bastard for all that. I value my bits too much to let Brunhilda's teeth near them. And Katie's all about reciprocity unless I give her a lust potion, and I usually can't be arsed."

"Wait, you can give a Mudblood a lust potion? Theo told me it wasn't possible, because of the Vow!" Draco shot Nott an accusing look.

"Nah, he just told you it would be cheating to try and win the bet that way," Marcus said. "I wouldn't try any strong shite like Amorentia, but the Weasley WonderWitch potions always get Katie frisky."

"No, it isn't possible," Nott said at the same time. "The Vow won't permit you to do anything coercive."

"Yeah, it is possible," Flint argued. "I've done it before."

"Sounds like it can't hurt to try," Draco said, leaving unvoiced his suspicion that the effectiveness of the WonderWitch potion and restrictiveness of the Vow might vary with the underlying level of sexual attraction. If that was the case, he didn't foresee any problems with Granger - except for one.

"Are you really expecting me to walk into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and buy a pink potion designed for teenage girls who need a date to the Yule Ball?"

If Flint said yes, Draco would know he was taking the piss. And his employee's next sales trip would be to Vladivostok.

Marcus snickered. "Nah, Malfoy. As amusing as that would be, I'll just get one of the loafers hanging around in Knockturn Alley to buy it for you on our way to lunch. You're too much of a miserable bastard to work for when you're not getting any."

(x) (x) (x)

When Hermione returned to her flat with a bagful of groceries for that night's dinner, it was nearly two in the afternoon. With the time difference, it was past eleven at night in Australia, but her godmother tended to stay up late. Resolutely, Hermione picked up the phone and punched in fourteen digits. After innumerable lists of pros and cons and exhaustive analysis, she needed impartial advice, and it was worth the expense of an international call to get it.

"Hullo?" Monica answered on the second ring.

"Hi, Monica. It's me."

"Is everything alright, Hermione?" her godmother asked, understandable concern in her voice.

"Everything is good. Great, even. It's just that . . . " Hermione trailed off, seeking the right words so that she didn't sound either mental or like a lovesick girl.

"Yes?" Monica prompted, now encouraging rather than concerned.

"I've met someone," Hermione blurted out.

"Oh?" Even over the long-distance phone connection, it was clear her godmother' interest was piqued. "Tell me about him. How did you meet?"

Hermione smiled at the godmother's correct assumption that the someone was male. "We met at a bookstore."

"Sounds promising."

"Mmmm, yes," Hermione agreed. She quickly summarized Malcolm's points, good and bad, for her godmother.

"Honestly, Hermione, he sounds perfect for you," Monica said. "Intelligent, ambitious, cultured. Even if he can be an arrogant arse, as you said, you need someone who won't be intimidated by you. How does this Malcolm feel about your goals? Is he supportive?"

"He is," Hermione affirmed. "It's not his field, of course, but he makes a real effort to understand what I'm doing. He even offered to put me in touch with a solicitor friend of his, because he thinks my research has commercial promise and wants to make sure my rights are protected."

"Good," Monica said approvingly. "I'm glad he's looking out for you. You deserve no less. So, let's talk about the important things. Is he good-looking?"

"Very," Hermione told her incorrigible godmother. "Tall, blond, well-built, gorgeous grey eyes that change with his mood."

"He sounds like an absolute dish. So, what's the problem?"

"I don't know what to do with him!" Hermione cried.

"Well, you just turned twenty-four and you've had a live-in boyfriend, so I'm sure you understand the basic mechanics."

Hermione could just imagine the grin on her earthy, practical godmother's face.

"I do have an elementary grasp, Monica, thanks ever so much," she told her godmother dryly. "It's just that I'm not certain I trust Malcolm enough to apply that knowledge to him."

"I see," Monica said slowly. "Is this a generalized mistrust, or has he given you any specific reason to doubt him?"

Thoughtfully, Hermione rotated the charm bracelet on her wrist in a motion she found to be soothing. It had only one charm at present, a miniature book with an embossed "H" on the front and a sapphire backing. The charm was so perfectly detailed that she could discern the individual pages.

A week after her birthday, Malcolm had arrived at her flat on Friday night with a bouquet of red roses, a sheepish smile, and a small, wrapped package containing the bracelet. He claimed a little bird had told him he missed her birthday, and infuriatingly refused to offer any information beyond that.

She almost had slept with him that night, but had held back because he had been so quietly confident after putting the bracelet around her wrist that she would. It was nothing so crude as a _quid pro quo_, but there was something about Malcolm's self-assurance that had rubbed her the wrong way. And Hermione was nothing if not stubborn and self-disciplined.

"He didn't tell me the truth about my birthday gift," she told Monica. "He claimed it was a mere trinket, but the bracelet is solid platinum and the charm is platinum overlaid on a sapphire the size of my thumbnail. A jeweler appraised it at more than three thousand pounds!"

"That's not exactly a bad lie to be told," Monica said slowly. "What made you have the bracelet appraised?"

"I don't know," Hermione replied, frustrated. "Instinct? Woman's intuition? Some other nonsense?"

"It's not nonsense," Monica reassured her, "but it's possible you're a bit too suspicious at the moment because of what happened with Andy. Is there anything else about Malcolm that gives you pause?"

"Nothing specific," Hermiome admitted, "except that he seems too perfect."

"That's not something you logically should hold against him," her godmother sensibly pointed out.

"I know, I know. Logically, I should grab him with both hands and hold on tight. And some of my instincts are on the same page, while others are telling me to walk away."

"I suppose it's your baser instincts that want to grab him?" Monica slyly asked.

Beyond an affirmative sort of humming, Hermione didn't answer.

"Have you tried our coin flip test?" her godmother inquired, more seriously.

"No, I haven't yet," Hermione said. "Perhaps I should."

The coin flip test was something she joked was taught in dental school, because both her parents and godparents endorsed its use. The test was simple enough: designate two potential course of actions as heads and tails. The value was in finding out one's immediate gut reaction once the coin flipped.

"Perhaps you should," agreed Monica. "It'll help you sort things out,"

Her godmother added a reassurance. "There's no wrong answer, Hermione. If you decide to grab onto Malcolm - literally - you're a responsible adult and you'll make sure to protect yourself. And if you walk away, Wendell met yet another nice young dentist at a conference he'd be happy to set you up with!"

(x) (x) (x)

It was an odd little foreign coin, bronze and about the size and weight of a pence piece. It depicted a bearded man on one side and a horned deer and the words "Unum Knut" on the other. Hermione thought it might be Turkish.

She wasn't quite certain how it had wound up wedged under a cushion on her couch, though she could recall any number of occasions where Malcolm had been in an active horizontal position on that piece of furniture, such that a coin could have easily fallen unnoticed from his pocket. It might have fallen from her pocket, too, but somehow Hermione was certain it was his.

The Knut would do well enough for her purposes. "Heads I dump him, tails I shag him," she told herself.

She flipped the coin into the air, caught it in her palm, and slapped it onto the back of her other hand.

Hermione peaked at the result and noted her immediate, strong reaction to the way the coin had landed.

"Well, isn't that interesting," she murmured. "I suppose I'll just have to convey that to Malcolm tonight."

(x) (x) (x)

Granger buzzed him into her building and was back to cooking dinner by the time he reached the third floor. Draco frowned slightly at the door to her flat, which she'd left ajar for him, and made a mental note to add security wards to the downstairs entrance.

He sniffed the air, savoring the aroma that had wafted out into the hallway. "Your shepherd's pie smells delicious, Hermione," he told her, depositing a small pastry box and wine bottle on the table before leaning comfortably against the doorway to her little kitchen. "Is there anything I can help with?"

She looked up from the counter where she was chopping vegetables. "You can cook?" Granger asked with a skeptical smile.

"Probably not," he admitted, because that's what house-elves were for, "but I can chop and slice with the best of them." Draco presumed it couldn't be all that different from potions.

"No need. I'm almost done with the salad and the pie's in the oven. Perhaps you could pour the wine?"

"Sure," he agreed easily. "It needs to decant first, though."

Granger took a closer look at the bottle of red and rolled her eyes. "Only you, Malcolm, would bring a vintage Bordeaux that's older than either of us to serve with shepherd's pie."

"Hey, it pairs well with lamb," he laughingly defended himself.

"The good glasses are in the cupboard over the frig," she directed. He reached over, deliberately pressing his body against hers, and bestowed a kiss on her neck on his way through the kitchen. She was wearing a soft jumper in hunter green. He loved that color on her, not just because it brought out the color of her eyes.

Draco easily plucked two glasses from the tall cabinet - Granger would need a step-ladder to get up there - and admired the fine crystal. "These are nice."

"They were a wedding gift to my parents," she stated matter-of-factly, handing him a damp paper towel. "Here, they're probably dusty."

He wiped them with care, noting the monogrammed initials and a date some thirty years before. "What happened to your parents?" Draco asked, curious as to the story her Obliviated mind would have constructed. "You've told me about Monica and Wendell, your godparents, but you never mention your birth parents."

Granger kept her back to him, her attention in the cutting board, as she answered in an even tone. "They died in a car crash a few weeks before I turned eighteen."

"I'm sorry," he said, stroking his hands down the soft wool of her jumper in a comforting way.

"It's alright," she told him softly, still not looking at him. "It's a painful memory but it's dulled with time."

It was an interesting choice of words, and made Draco wonder if she was planning to confide in him about her accident and memory loss. He had always assumed Granger would be rubbish at keeping secrets, like a typical Gryffindor, but she guarded her own quite well.

Hermione turned around to face him, now perfectly composed. "Have a seat," she invited. "Dinner's ready."

Draco had come straight from the office, and she smirked upon noticing his business attire. "You look like such a City boy, Malcolm. Why don't you take off your jacket and make yourself comfortable?"

He took her at her word and slung his suit jacket over the back of the chair, loosening his tie while he was at it. Granger passed him a plate with a generous helping of shepherd's pie and he reciprocated by handing her a glass of wine.

"Is this your secret family recipe?" he asked after the first couple bites, which he found to be disturbingly reminiscent of the excellent shepherd's pie served at Hogwarts. He was fairly certain he knew the answer.

"No, I wangled it out of one of the cooks at my old boarding school."

Of course she had. Draco was amazed at how much information her mind had retained, reorganized and skewed to a Muggle perspective.

"How was your day?" she asked, in what Draco had come to recognize as an evasive technique. Granger would change the subject whenever her past came up. It served his purposes to indulge her, so he shared an edited account of his shopping excursion with Flint and Nott that had her laughing.

"Your friend Mark sounds like quite the character!" Granger said, still amused.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it, pet," Draco drawled.

"Would you care to meet him and a few of my other friends? We're planning on heading out to a club on Halloween with a few other old school chums, if you'd like to come. I can pick you up here," he offered.

"Of course!" she accepted, apparently pleased at the prospect. He had met a couple of her friends as they'd been out and about, but this would be the first time he introduced her to anyone in his life.

"Brilliant! They've all been eager to meet you," Draco said with a straight face. Win or lose, he had now just committed himself to resolving his bet with Nott and Flint in a very public setting.

"Would you like dessert?" Granger asked.

"I thought you'd never ask," Draco smiled in anticipation. He had bought the chocolate raspberry tarte at a fancy pastry shop, and had Mipsy distill the violently pink WonderWitch potion into a glaze to brush on the fruit.

"Really, my asking was just a formality. I've never known you to turn down anything sweet," Granger told him, rising from the table and beginning to clear. Draco stood as well and began helping her, neatly stacking the dishes in the kitchen sink. Of all the things in the Muggle world he'd had to accustom himself to, chores were the worst.

"I thought maybe we could have dessert in the living room?" Granger asked, with unusual tentativeness. "And, Malcolm, we need to talk."

Draco tensed. Those words from any woman, pureblood, Mudblood, or Muggle, did not bode well.

"Sure, Hermione," he agreed with an easiness he was far from feeling. He settled himself on the sofa, dessert plate in hand, as Granger sat on the other end with one leg tucked underneath her.

As they tucked into dessert, Draco mentally reviewed possible topics for her intended talk, barely registering the rich, chocolate taste. The best possibility was that Granger planned to tell him about her accident and memory loss, in which case he would merely need to feign surprise and show appropriate sympathy. The worst possibility was that she had decided they should just be friends or some similar bollocks.

He was eating around the fruit, due to his concern that it would be unwise to mix a lust potion, no matter how mild, with a Vow that would exact consequences if he attempted to force his way beyond whatever boundaries Granger chose to set. Of course she noticed.

"The raspberries are so delicious! You really should try one!" Granger coaxed. Her eyes looked unusually golden, while her pupils were dilated in the dimmer light of the room.

Before he could demur, she had crawled across the couch with a fluid, feline grace and straddled his lap. "Here, take it," she purred, plucking a raspberry off his plate and holding it to his lips.

Obediently, Draco took the offered fruit. The effects of the WonderWitch potion were instantaneous. Already, he had been semi-aroused from his cock's Pavlovian association of Granger's couch with fun times, but now he was fully erect and felt a desperate need to shag her into sofa cushions.

Granger gave him a heated kiss. "Good boy," she murmured against his lips, before grinding herself against him and summarily stripping off her jumper.

Draco's final coherent thought of the evening, as he stared at creamy breasts spilling out of emerald green satin trimmed in black lace, was to give fervent thanks to Merlin that by some miracle, there was such a thing in this world as a competent Weasley.

**A/N: the inscription on Katie's ring is from Proverbs, in the King James version of the Bible. Astoria's necklace is an allusion to Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. **

**There will be a Halloween chapter in this story featuring the slimy Slytherin trio and their ladies (plus a few bonus characters!), though probably not by Halloween. Feel free to leave me a review with a guess as to what their costumes will be. If you guess correctly - or if your suggestion is so fabulous that it changes my mind - I'll of course attribute in my author's note. **


	11. Chapter 11: The Tijuana Tattoo

**A/N: Many, many thanks for the reviews and comments on the "coin flip" chapter (and earlier chapters) from dutch potterfan, mythzzrosenov, alyssualiu, IpreferJasper, ASJS, Aphrodite-Venus-u.k, smcintyre44, Colubrina, dragonwingedangel, kaoru104, Honoria Granger, PeachyMcPeach, surugasasa, Grovek26, Thelestris, SusanMarieS, Nimueiswriting, cha2010chi, CheshyreGrin, Clarabelle, Calimocho, Gullb3rg, naschwartz614, and guests. The feedback always is appreciated. If y'all came by my house at Halloween, I would make sure to give you the good (chocolate) candy!**

**Warning: This chapter has implicit sexual content, primarily in the form of morning-after gloating by Draco. **

**_October 8, 2003_**

Granger was still fast asleep, despite the morning sunlight brightening her bedroom. Over the years, the deviant side of Draco's imagination had supplied any number of scenarios in which he had he fucked her, but he had never pictured waking up next to her, so vulnerable and trusting, with her lightly freckled nose and rumpled curls making her look like an innocent little girl.

He smirked to himself. Last night had proven Granger was no such thing. The sex had been feral. As rough as they'd gotten, though, he hadn't felt so much as a tickle on his wrist from the Vow. Draco thought it was because he had merely been acceding to Granger's demands. She was a bossy, vocal little thing, in bed and out.

She was still naked under the sheet, lying on her stomach with her face buried in the pillow. Draco propped himself up on one elbow for a better view, idly counting the few freckles sprinkled on her top of her shoulders, interspersed among the bruises left by his fingers. Granger had marked him, too, and he had no intention of Healing the scratches she'd left along his back, arms and torso, not when they were reminders of such an excellent night.

Draco wondered how much of that excellence was due to the Weasley WonderWitch potion and how much was due to the volatile chemistry he and Granger shared. His Galleons were heavily on the latter. George Weasley would be locked up in Azkaban if his WonderWitch products routinely caused underage girls to act like rabid bitches in heat. And the dead sexy bra and knickers Draco had torn off Granger's body were strong evidence that she'd had seduction in mind even before being dosed with the pink potion. Draco mentally wrote off the couple of Galleons he'd spent on the Weasley potion as an unnecessary expenditure.

Of course, further experimentation would be needed to ascertain if Granger was just as eager and responsive without the benefit of the potion. Draco thought she would be. His cock was eager to prove that hypothesis _now_. His morning erection was more persistent than usual, due to the lingering smell of sex in the room and Granger's proximity.

He reached out a hand and lightly stroked from the top of her head down to the curve of her buttocks. There was no response, not even a sleepy grumble or change to her deep, even breathing. He reversed the motion, with the same lack of result, and grinned ruefully. There would be no waking her for a romp between the sheets this morning. It probably for the best. He was due in the office for an early meeting and his father would not accept "shagging Hermione Granger" as a valid excuse for being late.

With some reluctance, Draco left Granger's warm bed and efficiently collected his clothes - including, most critically, his suit jacket with his wand ensconced in an interior pocket - from where they'd been scattered around Granger's flat and made his way to the bathroom.

It was a tiny room, so small that it had only a shower stall but no bath. Despite the older fixtures and a cracked tile here and there, Granger kept it scrupulously clean. He conducted a quick reconnaissance, snooping in her medicine cabinet with wand in hand. When he found the packets of pills Theo had described, his Vow provided no impediment to a simple Switching Spell. After all, sugar pills were harmless.

As he ducked his head to avail himself of the shower, Draco reminded himself to get on with furnishing the flat Nott had found for him in Knightsbridge. It had a lovely marble ensuite bath off the master bedroom with a shower large enough for shagging and a soaking tub big enough to share.

After a quick shower and employing a few charms to shave, clean and press his suit, and change the color of his shirt and tie, Draco was ready for the day. He ducked back into the bedroom, where Granger was still deeply asleep, to leave a note on the nightstand inviting her to lunch. His presence was required at Astoria's birthday dinner this evening, but he would find time this afternoon to spend with Hermione.

Giving into a momentary temptation, he kissed her bare, bruised shoulder before pulling the corner of the duvet up higher, making sure she was covered and warm as she slept.

(x) (x) (x)

Mundungus Fletcher groaned and pulled his hat lower over his eyes. A few pints with Aberforth at the Hog's Head had turned into a few too many, and he had woken up in the goat pen. Again.

He consulted his tarnished pocket watch and groaned a second time, more loudly. At the last Order meeting, he had been assigned to check in on Hermione Granger and advised that the best time to catch the busy girl was as she left her flat in the morning. For at least the tenth time, he was already too late.

Except when Dung cast the Point Me spell directed to Hermione's Muggle driving license, his wand spun aimlessly around in his palm, indicating that she was still at home, concealed by a Death Eater's wards. It seemed the lass was having a bit of a lie-in this morning.

Dung smiled and thought that this just might be his lucky day. It was chilly and overcast in Hogsmeade, but he knew the forecast in London was for sun and unseasonable warmth. It would be pleasant to lounge in the little park across from the Granger girl's building, watching pretty birds stroll by and cadging spare change from open-handed students, until she made her appearance.

Decision made, Dung Apparated to a discreet alleyway and took up his position on a park bench with a perfect view of the entrance to her building. Had he been a mere fifteen minutes earlier, he would have been treated to the sight of Draco Malfoy leaving, whistling a jaunty Weird Sisters song and wearing a very contented smile along with his bespoke Muggle suit.

Instead, Mundungus spent nearly three uneventful but mildly profitable hours waiting for the Granger girl to emerge from her flat. He was on the verge of leaving to find some grub for his growling stomach when she finally left the building, wearing sunglasses and a light jacket with a silk scarf that couldn't quite hide a livid bite mark on her neck. Even from across the street, he could tell that she had the satisfied look of a Kneazle that had gotten into the cream and then topped it off with some caviar. Dung raised his eyebrows and wondered if the lucky bloke was still recovering upstairs in her bedroom.

"'Scuse me, miss," he intercepted Hermione on the sidewalk, "but can you spare a few pence for an old War veteran?"

She stopped short and Dung mentally kicked himself. It had been more than two years, but he still hadn't forgotten her interrogation on his Muggle military service record and subsequent tongue-lashing when she found his answers unconvincing.

Hermione lifted her sunglasses and gave him a searching look, taking in his cracked boots, shabby cloak, and battered fedora. An unexpected smile curved her lips as she reached into her bag. "I suppose every army has its rogues as well as its heroes."

She dropped several coins into his palm. "Don't spent it all at the same pub, soldier."

Mundungus waited until she had disappeared down the street before counting his largess. "Morgana's saggy tits!" he swore. In the midst of the Muggle pence and pound pieces, a bronze Knut stood out.

Dutifully, Dung took out a battered notebook and recorded the details of his encounter with the curly-haired witch. Between that and two Death Eater punks asking him yesterday to buy a Weasley lust potion, most likely so they could go bugger each other, he would have quite a report to offer at the next meeting of the Order.

(x) (x) (x)

Malcolm was waiting for her outside the quaint little bistro. His lingering kiss, his warm hand between her shoulder blades, and the polite way he drew back her chair dispelled some of Hermione's irrational morning-after fear that his charming behavior had been nothing more than a ruse to get her into bed and shag her until she barely knew her own name.

From the smug prat's smirk as she gingerly seated herself, Malcolm was not suffering from any false modesty about his prowess in her bed, or on her couch, or in the tiny hallway connecting her living room and bedroom. Hermione could feel her cheeks heating up at as he looked at her.

"How was your morning?" he asked, innocuously enough. "Did you get much done at the lab?"

"I slept in and came straight here," she confessed.

Malcolm's smirk reappeared. "Words cannot express how flattered I am to have diverted Hermione Granger, swot extraordinaire, from her studies."

Hermione smiled weakly. That wasn't all he had diverted her from, but _that _awkward conversation would have to wait until there wasn't a waiter hovering at her elbow.

"I'll have the potato leek soup, please," she requested.

Malcolm looked at her over the top of his menu but made no comment. However, when the waiter turned to him, he took the liberty of ordering more for her.

"I'll have the steak frites, rare. She'll have the same, but medium-rare. And a carafe of your house red."

She began to protest as soon as the waiter was out of earshot, but he forestalled her. "Speaking for myself, I'm ravenous. I have to imagine you feel the same, especially if you skipped breakfast."

"I do," she admitted, "but I only have five pounds in my wallet and - "

"You thought I was such a cheap bastard that I wouldn't buy you lunch?" Malcolm asked, insulted.

"No, of course not! It's just that - "

"You knew that I _would_ buy you lunch but your stubborn pride makes you reluctant to accept?"

"Something like that," she muttered.

"Hermione, look at me," he said, leaning across the table. "I invited you to lunch, so it is only proper etiquette that I should pay."

Hermione nodded. That was reasoning she could accept.

But Malcolm wasn't finished. "It is also my pleasure to buy you lunch, or really anything else your heart desires. I'm not doing it with the expectation of getting anything in return and I'm certainly not doing it as payment for services rendered."

She looked at him, unconvinced.

"Look," he sighed, "the way that I was raised, buying expensive presents is _the_ way to show affection. In case you haven't figured it out, I like you - quite a bit - and it makes me very happy to spoil you. So please stop balking every time I try to do something nice for my girlfriend."

Hermione was disarmed by Malcolm's unusual candor about his childhood and description of her as his girlfriend. She had not been seeing anyone else, but they had never discussed their relationship status.

"I promise to try, but I was raised with the idea that a girl should pay her own way. And that's how it's been with my boyfriends in the past."

"What a sorry lot of impoverished wankers you must have dated, princess. I'll try to make it up to you."

"And I'll try to let you - within reason," she stressed in the face of his rather triumphant smile at her concession.

Hermione fidgeted in her seat. Their ongoing skirmishes over who paid for what was trivial to her horrified realization this morning when brushing her teeth. "There's something else we need to discuss."

Malcolm looked at her with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "What has you worried now, Hermione?" he asked.

"Last night, we should have used protection, but we didn't," she told him, brown eyes serious.

His grey eyes were unreadable. "Aren't you on birth control pills or something like that? Are you telling me I might have gotten you pregnant?"

Despite his even tone and impassive expression, she had the odd thought that he was secretly delighted rather than outraged at the prospect. "I _am_ on the Pill, but it doesn't protect against any STI," she explained. "We both should have gotten tested before having sex, or at least used condoms."

Malcolm looked at her with blank incomprehension.

Hermione huffed a frustrated sigh at his not-unexpected reaction. Her boyfriend could be rather snobbish and narrow-minded in his thinking.

"I know a lot of people think that sexually transmitted diseases are limited to people who are promiscuous or 'dirty,' but that's just nonsense," she told him. "Even if you've only slept with one person in a committed relationship, you've still effectively slept with every person they've ever slept with. And if you've been cheated on, well, then . . . "

For just a moment, he looked murderous. Then his expression smoothed over. "I get what you're saying," Malcolm said agreeably. "You don't have to twist my arm. How do we get tested?"

Hermione blinked in surprise. She had thought he would be more resistant. "It's a simple blood draw - just a pinprick really. We can go to the student health center after lunch, if you'd like."

"Fine," he assented. "I don't think we have anything to worry about, but it's important to you, so let's get tested."

"It _is_ important," she asserted. "The entire premise of my research is aimed at solving the shortage of blood products due to the large number of donors who are screened out due to a STI. I know the risks, and I've always tried to be so careful."

Indeed, after Monica's reminder about the importance of protecting herself, Hermione had gone out and purchased a box of condoms before Malcolm arrived for dinner. And then they had completely slipped out of her mind.

"I just don't know what got into me last night!" she fretted.

From the look on Malcolm's face, he was thinking of one thing that had gotten into her last night, repeatedly, but the lecherous prat prudently held his tongue and turned his attention to his lunch instead.

(x) (x) (x)

It was chilly inside the student health center and the smell of Muggle antiseptic made Draco's nose itch.

He noticed Granger was shivering. He draped an arm over her shoulders and tugged her closer across the vinyl seats in the waiting area, to share in the warmth of his body. She rested her head against his shoulder and he was taken aback at how utterly comfortable it felt.

"Better?" he asked in a low voice.

"Much," she affirmed. "I just hate anyplace that reminds me of a hospital. And I'm worried that Andy might have infected me with something nasty and now I might have passed it along to you."

Draco realized his brave little Gryffindor had been shivering from fear rather than cold and hugged her more tightly. He had noticed she wasn't wearing the bracelet he had given her, probably because she was going into the lab, and it made a real difference in her level of anxiety.

"It'll be fine," he reassured her. "Just a little pinprick, like you said, and then you won't have to worry anymore once you get the results." And Draco would offer whatever bribes were necessary to get those results in an expeditious manner. He didn't want her to worry unduly and, of course, shagging with a johnnie on his prick would do nothing to advance his agenda.

A man holding a clipboard called their names. "Granger and Foy? This way, please." He led them to a small, curtained-off cubicle containing a countertop and cabinets holding Muggle medical equipment and two chairs.

"I'll go first," Granger volunteered, sitting down in the larger of the two chairs, pushing up her sleeve, and placing her left arm - the one his aunt had left unscarred - on the attached tray. Without comment, the Muggle Healer tied an elastic band around her upper arm. Draco averted his gaze when the man slid a needle into the vein at the crook of her elbow.

"Are you alright, Hermione?" he asked, more to distract himself than her. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her blood running through the plastic tubing into a tiny glass flask. It was just as scarlet red as the time he had seen her bleeding on the floor of his family's drawing room.

"I'm fine, Malcolm," she answered in a steady voice, more concerned for him. "Would you like to sit down?"

The Muggle was giving him a contemptuous look, so Draco realized he must look even paler than usual. He shook his head with a feigned casualness. "You're almost done, pet. I'd just be switching seats with you."

Mercifully, that was the case. The Muggle swiftly removed the needle, not causing Granger any obvious discomfort, and applied a bandage over the tiny puncture wound.

"Your turn, mate," the Healer told him, with an obscene sort of cheerfulness. Theo had told him the names for various kinds of Muggle medical professionals, but Draco honestly didn't know if this one was a male nurse, or a physician, or some sort of assistant. All that he knew was that the sadistic bastard was grinning at the prospect of sticking a huge needle deep in his arm. Draco was nonchalant. Whatever the bloke did to him, it would be nothing compared to a _Crucio_.

Draco took his seat and immediately realized there was a problem. "I'm left-handed," he protested.

And if he rolled up the sleeve on his left arm, Granger would see his Dark Mark. She hadn't noticed it last night, due to both positioning and her preoccupation with other parts of his body. Logically, he knew that she would have to see it soon, if he was shagging her on a regular basis, but he would prefer that it not be now, under harsh fluorescent lights and with a Muggle present.

"C'mon, mate," the Muggle said in a low voice. "Stop whinging and put on a good show for your girl. She was brave enough about it."

With that push, Draco resignedly rolled up his sleeve and presented his left arm.

"Nice ink," the Muggle complimented as he stuck the needle in. Draco gritted his teeth, out of exasperation rather than pain. The blood draw was as painless as Hermione had promised, but he didn't need this ignoramus praising a Mark that stood for genocide of his own people.

"What is that?" Granger asked in a sharp tone, a mix of disgust and fear on her face as she looked at his forearm.

Draco refrained from the smart arse answer that it was obviously a tattoo of a human skull imposed on a snake's body. Instead, he opted for a variant of the truth.

"It's a permanent memento of my youthful stupidity," he stated.

"Do tell," Granger prompted, not satisfied by his bare explanation.

"I was drunk in Tijuana, on holiday with a bunch of friends from school, and we somehow decided it would be a brilliant idea to get inked." Draco delivered the agreed-upon story convincingly, while cringing internally.

Years ago, Marcus Flint had been the first of their little group to have to explain his Dark Mark, to an Obliviated Katie Bell. Now he and Theo were stuck with the same story for the sake of consistency. While Draco could easily picture Flint, or his Muggle alter ego, behaving in such an asinine manner, the story was less plausible for him. When it came to the ever-sober Theo, it was ridiculous.

"It looks like a brand," Hermione accurately observed. Voldemort had magically seared the Dark Mark into the arms of his followers. Draco vividly remembered the burning pain and smell of his own charred flesh when he was Marked.

"Can't you have it removed?" she asked, as the Muggle removed the needle from his arm.

Draco shook his head as he rolled down his sleeve. "However it was done, it's permanent. Believe me, I've tried."

Granger offered no further comment, but continued to look uneasily at his now-covered forearm.


	12. Chapter 12: Tricks and Treats (Part 1)

**A/N: My thanks to those who read and especially those who reviewed the last chapter (naschwartz614, IpreferJasper, GingerCat55, kettle-of-fish, dutch potterfan, dragonwingedangel, Aphrodite-Venus-uk, ASJS, surugasasa, Ramyfan, Grovek26, Calimocho, latina-pr, Clarabelle, v-x-y-zz, underneathasycamore, life-is-rolling-keep-on-going, ordinaryvamp, Colubrina, CheshyreGrin, karou 104, and guests) and my apologies for the delay in posting this Halloween chapter. As compensation, it's long enough that I've broken it up in two parts and the second part also will be up later today or tomorrow. **

**Extra special thanks to Clarabelle for the JFF costume suggestion and to latina-pr, whose comment inspired the alliance that is formed in the ladies' loo. **

**Trigger warnings: The chapter contains excessive alcohol consumption, a squicky non-con reference from the rapist's pov, and an M-rated interaction between Draco and Hermione at the end of the chapter, so you can skip it if that's not your cup of tea (or read ahead if it is). Based on a thoughtful comment** **from a reviewer, I am adding a dub-con warning for that purely because Hermione's willingness to engage in certain acts with her nice Muggle boyfriend cannot be presumed to extend to the same acts with Malfoy. **

**_October 31, 2003_**

Hermione fluffed and then smoothed her hair, a bit nervously, as she waited for Malcolm to pick her up before they met a group of his friends at a popular club in Soho. Just now, she had just buzzed him through the building's front door, so he would be arriving in her flat at any moment. She wasn't certain if this was a costume affair or not, but it was Halloween night, so she had dressed to adapt. Her little black dress over sheer black stockings and patent leather Mary Jane high heels was standard clubbing gear, but she had a headband with pussycat ears if needed.

Hermione pulled the door open at his soft knock. Malcolm looked striking, as always, in a black tuxedo with silver vest and bow tie, and a black cape lined in a deep green silk negligently tossed over his shoulders. The quality of fabric in a costume he was using for one night was higher than just about any article of clothing in her wardrobe. She refrained from rolling her eyes at the extravagance. A silk top hat on his sleek platinum-blond hair and a fake wand completed his ensemble.

She reached up on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss against his lips. "You make a very handsome magician, Malcolm. Shall I ask you to perform some tricks for me later?"

"I will happily perform whatever magic you require of me, Hermione." He kissed back, quick and hard, and then set her at arm's length for a quick inspection. "You look lovely, but I forgot to mention we were going in costume, didn't I?"

"You did forget, but it doesn't matter. I can put on my cat ears," she offered.

"Not necessary, pet. My first magical feat of the evening will be to transform your attire into a proper Halloween costume." As he spoke, Malcolm's hand was on the zip at the back of her dress, pulling it down with practiced ease.

Her boyfriend's eyes darkened as he took in her thigh-high stockings and emerald green and black lingerie, his favorite. Hermione thought he had irreparably torn the knickers the first time they had sex, but she had found them intact the following morning.

"If I weren't already horribly late, I would ravish you right here in the entryway," Malcolm told her in a husky voice. He slipped a finger under the strap of her bra. "Leave this for now, but I'll be taking it off later," he promised.

Hermione shivered, both in anticipation and from the chill of standing in her foyer wearing nothing but her underthings and shoes. Sex with her boyfriend was still very much a novelty. Between waiting to receive a clean bill of health from NHS, proctoring midterm exams, and her monthly, the past three weeks hadn't exactly been conducive to intimacy. She could still count the number of occasions they had slept together on less than two hands.

After one more admiring glance, he turned away to the garment bag he'd hung on the doorknob. Some of Hermione's cautious common sense reasserted itself. "Please tell me you're not going to have me dressed up like a tart."

"I swear I won't, honor bright," Malcolm grinned wolfishly as he pulled her costume from the bag. "I won't say it's not sexy, but it covers as much or more than what you were wearing."

As he spoke, he passed her a pleated grey skirt, which she stepped into, and a white Oxford shirt, which he buttoned for her. Since they had begun dating in September, he had undressed her any number of times, but this was the first time he'd helped her dress. Hermione found it rather erotic, though his choice of costume made her burst out laughing.

While Malcolm had told the truth, insofar as the costume he had selected for her covered as much as the black dress she had originally been wearing, the skirt hit mid-thigh and the blouse was tight, with enough buttons left undone to allow a glimpse of her brassiere.

"I can't believe you're having me dress up as a naughty school girl!" she giggled.

"I know, I know. It's predictable almost to the point of being plebeian, but I couldn't help myself. It's a recurrent fantasy where you're concerned," her boyfriend admitted cheerfully. "Jumper or vest?" he asked.

"Vest, I suppose."

"Good choice. It'll be warm in the club." Malcolm pulled the dark grey wool, trimmed with silvery-grey bands at the bottom and collar, over her head and smoothed it over her body. As she expected, the vest was far too tight, accentuating her breasts.

"Now for your tie," he said, pulling the strip of silk from his pocket rather than the garment bag.

"The colors are wrong," Hermione objected before he could wind it around her neck.

"Whatever do you mean?" he asked warily.

"Harrow's colors are blue and white," she stated. _And __**my**__ tie should be maroon and gold._ At her boyfriend's flummoxed expression, she faltered but carried on. "I thought for some reason you were having me wear your old school tie."

His face cleared. "Oh, no. I just picked a tie that coordinated with my costume." With that explanation, he deftly looped the silver and green silk through her shirt's collar and tied it, securing it with a silver pin. For the second time that evening, Malcolm put her at arm's length to critically inspect what she was wearing.

"You look fucking _perfect_."

(x) (x) (x)

Thumping bass from the club's sound system was audible as soon as Draco exited from the taxi, offering a hand to Hermione as she emerged. Her long legs, encased in sheer black stockings, drew enough appreciative catcalls from the Muggle blokes waiting in line that Draco couldn't glare at them all.

He had planned to arrive earlier, but his father had insisted hosting on a small dinner party for Samhain, including Draco's Greengrass in-laws on the guest list. After an interminable meal, he had been escorted to the study by his father-in-law and Lucius and treated to a Firewhiskey and a homily on his marital duties. As summarized by the two older wizards, that meant keeping his wife on a short lease and getting her pregnant.

Draco had nodded and said all the right things in order to make a timely escape, but he had zero interest in having sex with Astoria ever again. He had spent a week earlier in the month waiting for the results of an ultimately clean blood test (after discovering, to his chagrin, that bribes did not work with the Muggle health service, not because its personnel were incorruptible, but because its bureaucracy was too Byzantine to even find the right palms to grease). He had been terrified the entire time that his dick was going to fall off from some STI, probably badger pox, since Macmillan was what passed for a player in Hufflepuff circles. Draco never wanted to experience a repeat of that anxious week.

The practical effect of Lucius pulling his _pater familias_ act was that Theo and Flint and any other Slytherins in attendance had a two-hour head start in drinking, which made alcohol-induced slips to a clear-headed Granger all too likely. That made it imperative that he make one confession to her now, before they walked into the club. He pulled her off to the side just before the velvet rope. (In Draco's view, VIP passes and private bottle service were the only things that made Muggle clubs tolerable.) "Can I trust you with a secret, Hermione?" he asked.

"What is it?" she asked back, instantly suspicious.

In all fairness, Draco knew that he had lost his bet with Flint and Nott. For all that he was shagging her on a semi-regular basis and had her dressed up for the evening like a little Slytherin doll, Granger still did not trust him at some fundamental level. It came out unexpectedly, at times like this, and Draco hypocritically felt a bit hurt.

"Well, it's not really a secret, but it is a bit embarrassing," he hedged, in a playful tone. "You have to promise not to laugh."

With that cue, she reverted back to her usual banter with him. "An embarrassing non-secret? Tell me! And I promise to _try_ not to laugh."

"I've never told you my middle name."

"Mine is Jean," she volunteered, eyes sparkling in anticipation at his revelation.

"That's a very nice, normal name. _My _middle name is Draco."

Rather than laughing, Hermione looked intrigued. "After the constellation?"

"It's a tradition in my mother's family, to use the names of constellations and such," he confirmed. "I went through a phase at school where I thought 'Malcolm' was stodgy, so I had all my mates call me Draco or Drake or even Mal. You'll probably hear all of those tonight."

"Draco Foy," she tested the name, speaking slowly and thoughtfully. "Drake Foy. Mal Foy." She wrinkled her nose at the last.

Draco held his breath. His family name was notorious, and he was concerned about it what it might trigger.

"I like the name Draco. It suits you," a Granger pronounced, after a pause. "Does anyone still call you that?"

"A lot of people I went to school with still do," he replied. "And my mother has always called me Draco."

She nibbled on her lip in what he now recognized as a prelude to a request she thought might be unfavorably received. "Would you mind if I sometimes called you Draco?"

He caught her hand and kissed her wrist where the cuff of her uniform shirt ended. "You may call me anything you like."

"C'mon, princess," he said, guiding her into the snake pit with a hand at the small of her back. "There are some people I'd like you to meet."

(x) (x) (x)

Inside the club, there were several people crowded around their reserved table, laughing and talking over the loud music. When they arrived, Malcolm holding her by the hand, the table quieted and Hermione found herself subject to the scrutiny of several pairs of eyes, most friendly or neutral, but one distinctly hostile.

"What is _she_ doing here, Drakey?" demanded a young woman with a pug nose and sleek black hair pulled into two pig tails. Her prettiness was marred by the nasty expression on her face.

"I have the same question for you, Pansy, but it can wait until I've introduced Hermione to everyone," Malcolm answered evenly with an undercurrent of warning in his voice.

"Hermione, this is Pansy Parkinson Urquhart. Pansy, I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Hermione Granger," he stated.

Hermione wasn't about to lie and say it was a pleasure to meet the other woman, and Pansy was apparently of the same mind. Neither offered the other her hand to shake.

Instead, as soon as Malcolm was safely distracted in a hissed conversation with a serious-looking young man with glasses, the pug-faced woman turned on Hermione. "I can't believe Draco brought you out dressed like that!" she spat.

Hermione refrained from tugging down the hem of her too-short pleated skirt, instead giving the other woman an insouciant shrug. "As a naughty schoolgirl? It's a common enough costume on Halloween."

"Oh, I agree that it's common, Granger," Pansy said snidely.

Hermione struck back with a catty observation of her own on Pansy's blue and white checkered costume.

"Are you supposed to be Dorothy from the _Wizard of Oz_? The Wicked Witch would suit you better, Parkinson. You're certainly an unpleasant shade of green where _my_ boyfriend is concerned."

"Mee-ow!" interjected the curly-haired blond man to Pansy's left. Teasingly, he bopped the pug-faced woman on the top of her head with a pink wand topped with a shiny silver star.

"I _told _Pansy she should go as the Wicked Witch of the West to my Good Witch of the South, but she insisted on being Dorothy." He leaned closer to mock-whisper in Hermione's ear. "Honestly, she just wanted an excuse to show off her new ruby-red Jimmy Choos!"

Peeking under the table, Hermione saw that Pansy's feet were indeed encased in a pair of glittering scarlet pumps, with a heels at least twice as high as her own.

"I'm Justin Finch-Fletchley," the curly-haired man introduced himself with a friendly smile. "But you can call me Glinda! Pansy's my date, because I'm between boyfriends right now."

"Hello, Glinda," Hermione played along, taking in the man's pale pink and silver-spangled dress, topped off with puffy transparent sleeves that resembled fairy wings. Justin was wearing a silver crown on his head and pink and silver ballet flats on his feet.

"Were you friends with Malcolm back at school?" she asked, with some hesitation. Her boyfriend was not homophobic, but she couldn't picture him being friendly with someone as flamboyant as Justin.

"I don't think so," Justin answered in an equally uncertain tone. "I went to Eton."

"Malcolm went to Harrow. So I suppose that makes you two old school rivals," she said pleasantly.

Justin nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, that makes perfect sense! Here, let me introduce you to my co-worker, Katie. She's a pediatric physiotherapist, while I do speech and language with the kiddies."

He tugged at the sleeve of a brunette with a pixie haircut, dressed as a football with the black and white hexagons stretched over her rounded belly. The broadly-built man she was sitting with noticed the action and beat Justin to the introductions.

"Hullo," he greeted Hermione with an exuberant, slightly inebriated hug. "Mark Stone. I went to school with your miscreant of a boyfriend. And he's now my boss." He winked at her. "Whatever you're doing to him, do keep it up, please. He's much easier to work for lately."

He reminded Hermione a bit of a friendly bear, complete with jagged teeth. He was wearing an Arsenal uniform, so Hermione assumed he was with the woman in the football costume. His next words confirmed that.

"And this is the love of my life, Katie." Mark wrapped an arm around the pregnant brunette, turning her towards Hermione.

Katie had even, white teeth, which she flashed in a sweet smile in Hermione's direction. "I'm so happy to meet you!"

"Likewise," Hermione smiled back. "When are you due?"

"January, and it can't come soon enough! It's no fun being out on a night like this with nothing alcoholic to drink!"

"We're having a boy," Mark proudly announced, patting Katie's belly. The movement drew Hermione's attention to the skull and snake brand on the inside of his forearm. She felt the same visceral reaction of repulsion and fear that she did whenever she saw Malcolm's bare left arm.

Katie seemed unaffected by the tattoo, as she smacked her partner's hand lightly. "_You_ are not having anything. In case you've forgotten from the last time around, I do all the work, while you stand around and look helpless. And stop rubbing my belly! It's not magic lamp, and the baby isn't going to pop out and give you three wishes!" She was smiling as she spoke, though, and Mark bent to whisper something in her ear about what he wished for that made her blush.

Malcolm rejoined them. "Now that you've been exposed to Mark, I'd like you to meet one of my more respectable friends." He inclined his head towards the serious-faced young man with glasses, who had dressed for the night in surgeon's scrubs, complete with stethoscope. "This is Theodore or Ted Knott, former classmate and my current solicitor."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Hermione," Theodore extended his hand with a small smile. "Malcolm's told me so much about you, including the research you're working on."

"Oh, of course!" Hermione connected the dots. "You must be the solicitor he's consulted."

"Indeed," he confirmed. "May I introduce my fiancée, Dr. Cho Chang? Cho is doing her postgraduate clinical training at Royal Free, so I expect you two will find you have a lot in common."

Hermione caught Malcolm giving his friend an odd, warning sort of look at that pleasantry, and made a mental note to ask her boyfriend about Cho later.

Theodore and Cho had swapped professions for the night, as the petite woman was wearing a barrister's curling white wig and black robes for her costume. Her posture was graceful but rigid, making Hermione think of a ballerina suffering from stage fright. Cho's grip was firm, but the bones in her hand felt so fragile that Hermione worried about squeezing too hard.

While Cho was not overtly rude like Pansy, her dark eyes were guarded and Hermione had the distinct feeling that Cho disliked her on sight. Hermione gratefully accepted Malcolm's proffered vodka tonic, looking up at him with a smile. "Is there anyone else you want me to meet?" she asked.

Theodore answered for her boyfriend. "Blaise Zabini is heading this way."

Malcolm frowned. "Blaise is not someone I _want_ Hermione to meet, Theo. How did that viper manage to slither his way into our party?"

"Katie invited Justin, Justin brought Pansy, and Pansy just coincidentally ran into Blaise and he decided to tag along," the other man explained.

"I don't believe in coincidences where Zabini is concerned," her boyfriend snorted. "Why didn't you tell him to fuck off, Nott?"

"What, and deprive you of that distinct pleasure? I think not."

Malcolm turned to her, his expression softening despite her disapproving expression. "I know you think I'm being an arsehole, pet, but you haven't yet met Zabini. Do _not_ accept any drinks from him. He - "

"Drakey!" Pansy interrupted with a shrill cry, before Malcolm could expound on his dislike of Blaise Zabini. She was with a tall, handsome dark-skinned man dressed in a white bell-bottomed suit, evoking _Saturday Night_ _Fever_. "If you still need to talk to me, Drakey, you can do it while we're dancing. Oh, and Blaise wants to meet _her_."

She shot Hermione a look of deepest loathing and grabbed Malcolm's hand, pulling him towards the dance floor. He mouthed a quick "sorry" but allowed Pansy to lead him away, leaving Hermione fuming.

"Well, that was rude," Blaise observed, an amused expression playing across his chiseled features. "I'm Blaise Zabini, but I'm sure you already inferred that. May I have the pleasure of a dance, Hermione, while Mal Foy is otherwise occupied?"

She glanced once more at the dance floor, where the witch dressed as Dorothy had her arms wrapped around her boyfriend's shoulders. Malcolm was watching them closely. She smiled tightly at Blaise. "I don't see any reason why not."

(x) (x) (x)

For more than half of his life, Blaise Zabini had hated Draco Malfoy. It started on their first day at Hogwarts, when the pointy-faced blond boy threw Blaise's trunk off the bed he had chosen, arrogantly announcing that he would have it for himself. At eleven, Blaise would have contested the point, but Malfoy had been backed up by his goons, Crabbe and Goyle. So he had sullenly taken a less desirable bed further from the fireplace and closer to the door, and his dislike and resentment of the blond wizard had grown ever since.

Blaise had largely avoided his classmates since leaving Hogwarts, preferring the easy pickings offered by Eurotrash Muggles, but his ears had perked up when Pansy Parkinson casually mentioned she would be at a Muggle club on Halloween with Justin Finch-Fletchley, a woman named Katie, and Katie's partner Mark.

There had been rumors of the Dark Lord's curse on the next generation of pure-blood children, as well as quiet conversations about whether there was any way to break it - or at least circumvent it. Marcus Flint's name had cropped up again and again in those conversations. Based on a hunch, Blaise had invited himself to the Muggle club with Pansy.

Now he knew that Flint had gotten a girl child out of Katie Bell already and she was pregnant with his heir. It was rather humorous to discover that Flint, who had been a feared enforcer for the Dark Lord, doted on his expectant Mudblood.

Seeing Cho Chang with Theodore Nott's engagement ring on her finger was an amusing bonus. The last time he had seen her, she had been naked and spread-eagled on a filthy mattress at Nott Manor, covered in her own blood and semen from a dozen or more Death Eaters. Blaise had taken his turn in every hole, but she had been a lousy lay, barely conscious and too hurt to fight back. Ironically, Cho had instinctively moved behind her Death Eater fiancé after being introduced to Blaise, as though Theo would protect her. He wished Nott the joy of her.

Seeing Malfoy and being re-introduced to the hot little Mudblood currently dancing with him as decorously as blaring hip hop music allowed had been less enjoyable. In Blaise's view, Granger was just the latest example of Malfoy always and unfairly getting the best. While Malfoy was going to get produce his legally pure-blooded and almost certain-to-be magically powerful heir by fucking her filthy, tight body, Blaise was stuck with Dennis Creevey, who was worthless for all intents and purposes.

Blaise was disappointed, too, that the secrets he had discovered tonight were not fodder for blackmail. It was perfectly legal for Flint, Nott and Malfoy to have any sort of consensual relationship with their Mudbloods, so long as they kept them ignorant of the existence of magic. And Blaise was no fool, to risk a term in Azkaban by violating the Statute of Secrecy and telling Granger anything she wasn't permitted to know. Still, he would do what he could to plant a spoke in Malfoy's wheel.

"I wouldn't worry too much about your boyfriend and Pansy. She's still crazy about him, but Drake moved on years ago," he told Granger with a smile that was meant to be sympathetic, his mouth brushing her ear.

"Thanks for that reassurance," she replied in a colorless voice.

"Did Draco ever tell you we all called him the Slytherin sex god back at school?"

"No, he didn't see fit to mention that one," Granger said, but he could tell she was curious. "What does that mean, to be a _slithering_ sex god?"

"Maybe that he's good at slithering into girls' knickers? Probably you already knew that." Blaise smiled in a suggestive manner. "So, how long have you two been together?" he asked, white teeth glinting.

"A couple of months." Granger's social smile didn't reach her eyes, and she was keeping as much physical distance as the crowd of dancers allowed.

Blaise was a little surprised by her wariness. Women normally found him attractive and only realized he was a dangerous predator when it was too late. Malfoy hadn't had time to warn Granger against him, and she shouldn't be able to remember anything she had heard about Blaise's proclivities prior to her Obliviation.

"You just seem like too much of a good girl for him," the dark wizard observed. "So _wholesome_." He would love to defile and destroy that wholesomeness, but Malfoy would never allow it. Blaise knew the blond wizard had been watching them dance the entire time, twirling his wand between long, pale fingers and probably deciding which Dark curses to use on him.

"Opposites attract, don't you know?" Granger rejoined.

"I've always subscribed to the theory that like hews to like, myself," Blaise answered. "Like Mal Foy and Astoria."

"His ex-girlfriend who cheated on him?"

"Did she really?" Blaise filed away that tidbit for later. "Is that all he told you about her?"

When Granger said nothing, he continued maliciously. "They were together for more than four years. I highly doubt he's gotten over her in just four months. She's gorgeous - tall and slim with silky dark hair. Her parents are good friends with Draco's parents, and I know for a fact that his father is pushing him hard to get back together with her."

Granger looked troubled, encouraging Blaise to twist the knife. "You haven't met Drake's parents yet, have you? You should ask him to introduce you," he sweetly suggested. "Perhaps he can take you to the family Manor for a visit. Or maybe you're just his dirty little secret."

Out of the corner of his eye, Blaise could see the blond wizard approaching and knew his time with Granger was coming to an end. Draco always had been possessive of his toys, particularly given Blaise's tendency to break them.

"May I cut in?" Malfoy asked with icy politeness.

Blaise gracefully yielded, bowing over Granger's hand kissing it with exaggerated politeness. "It was a distinct pleasure, _carina_. Perhaps one we can repeat later, yes?"

He walked away but stayed within earshot, curious as to the dynamic between Malfoy and his Mudblood.

"You are not dancing with him again, Granger," Malfoy ordered.

Even though Blaise was doubtful Granger wanted to dance with him again, Malfoy's command got her nose in the air and her hands on her hips. "Who are you to tell me that, when you were off dancing with your ex-girlfriend? Oh, I know, you're the slithering sex god, so I'm just supposed to fall at your feet and do whatever you say?"

Blaise smirked to himself. This was going to be good.

"Zabini told you about Slytherin?" Draco was shocked, but quickly recovered. "You shouldn't believe anything that comes out of his mouth. He's an untrustworthy, deceptive snake."

"Pot, meet kettle?" Granger suggested mockingly.

"No!" Draco reached out and grabbed her wrist. "Listen to me, Hermione - "

"Let go, Malcolm," she told him. "You're hurting me."

"Am not," he said with certainty, but still complied.

Blaise raised his eyebrows. Malfoy certainly gave his feisty Mudblood quite a bit of latitude. Personally, he would have back-handed her by now.

"I would never hurt you, Hermione. I couldn't hurt you. But Zabini would. You can trust your instincts where he's concerned." Malfoy's voice was low and compelling and Granger nodded slowly, permitting him to take her hand and lead her into a dance.

Sneering, Blaise wondered to what extent those "instincts" were memories that had not been fully suppressed. In any case, he'd have to find new prey to play with. With a smirk, he decided to saunter back to the table to taunt Cho, to see if he could trigger any recollection of what he'd done to her.

(x) (x) (x)

An hour or so into the evening, the departure of the ladies for the loo and Zabini for the dance floor left Draco, Flint and Nott alone at the table with a tipsy Justin Finch-Fletchley.

It seemed that alcohol put the blond Muggle-born into an amorous mood. He leaned over and planted a hand on Draco's knee, though it wasn't clear whether his intent was seductive or to prevent himself from toppling over. "Have we met before?" he asked Draco, batting his eyelashes.

"Sorry, you're not my type," Draco told him bluntly, ignoring the question. He didn't go for blokes, he didn't go for blondes, and he certainly didn't go for Hufflepuffs. At one point, Draco also would have said he didn't go for Mudbloods, but the curly-haired exception to that rule was on her way to the ladies' room, still in a bit of a snit with him.

"Are you sure we haven't met? I'm sure I've seen those gorgeous grey eyes before. And that silky blond hair!"

Justin reached out a hand to stroke his fringe, but Draco batted it away. As a pretty boy Death Eater at the tender age of sixteen, he had fended off much more aggressive propositioning from his erstwhile compatriots, but he wasn't in the mood to deal with a randy Hufflepoof.

"Listen, Finch-Fucker or whatever your name is, I don't swing your way. So bugger off, or go bugger yourself, or get someone else to bugger you, but leave me the fuck alone." He spoke in a low, icy tone that seemed to get through to the former Hufflepuff, even in his inebriated state.

"Well, fine!" Justin pouted. "If you change your mind, sailor, you know where to find me." With a final come-hither glance at Draco, he sashayed away in the direction of the men's loo.

Marcus grinned at Draco, but elected to comment on a different subject. "Merlin, Granger looks fucking hot in a Hogwarts uniform!"

"Stop perving on my girlfriend, Flint," Draco ordered.

"So she's your girlfriend now, not just a Mudblood?" Nott asked sourly. Zabini's little jibes at Cho had gotten under his skin.

Flint interjected before Draco could snap back at Theo. "I wonder if I could get Katie to play dress up in her old Quidditch uniform?" he mused.

He answered his own question. "Probably not. The leathers would be too hard to explain. And I may be in the doghouse anyways, since I have to wait for my year-end bonus to get her Arsenal tickets, now that I owe you some Galleons."

"I wouldn't be so quick to pay up, Marcus," Theo cautioned. "The terms of the bet called for Granger to be, quote, 'eating out of his hand.' All that I've seen tonight is that she's wearing a Halloween costume, which is not proof she has that level of trust in Malfoy."

"I never thought you were one to welch on a bet, Nott. If Granger dressed up like a Slytherin slut isn't going to satisfy you, what the fuck is?" Draco snarled, irritated by Theo's little legalisms.

Theo shrugged. "You two seemed to be having a little lovers' spat. I'd like to see you kiss and make up before the night's over."

Draco refused to take the bait, instead reverting to a concern that had been niggling at him all night. "Speaking of Zabini, what do we do about him? Personally, I suggest we _Avada_ him and dump his body in the Thames."

"I'd like to beat him to death the Muggle way, myself," Flint said, cracking his knuckles. "Did you see the way he looked at Katie?"

Draco hadn't noticed, but he had seen Zabini's dark eyes resting on Granger with a disturbing intensity. "Nott?"

Theo shook his head. "We do nothing. There is nothing he can do to us - we're not breaking any laws by spending a night out with our forgetful Muggleborns. And I'm not going to risk Azkaban because you two drunken idiots think he looked at your girlfriends the wrong way."

"He did more than _look_ at your fiancée, Theo," Flint said, his tongue loosened by too much alcohol.

"I'm not going to risk Azkaban through precipitous action," Theo repeated. "One of these days, Blaise will be held accountable, in a proper manner and by the proper authority, for his crimes."

Marcus looked at the solicitor in astonished disgust and Draco shook his head. "You've really bought into this Muggle rule of law shite, haven't you?"

Without waiting for Theo's response, Draco raised another concern. "What if the girls start comparing notes on us? You know that's what they're doing right now in the loo."

"Yeah, and your girlfriends are going to be so envious of my size and stamina and - "

"Not a joking matter, Flint," Draco cut him off. "I am still struggling to come to grips that Katie and Justin have worked together for years - that he's been to your house as a guest, for Salazar's sake! - and you never realized that he's a Mudblood wizard."

"He didn't play Quidditch, he wasn't in my year, and he obviously wasn't in Slytherin. There's no reason why I should have known him or recognized him," Flint answered reasonably. "All I knew is that he's queer, good at working with kids who can't talk properly, and Katie likes him. Seems like a decent enough bloke."

"He might be, but that's besides the point. Two Mudbloods working together isn't just a coincidence," Draco declared. "It has my brilliant little girlfriend's fingerprints all over it, and I don't know what other schemes she put in place before losing her memories."

"Granger doesn't know, either, Malfoy. She's forgotten all about it," Nott reassured him. "And I saw Cho's reaction when they were introduced. I doubt she's going to be sharing girlish confidences with Hermione anytime soon. Besides, Pansy is with them."

Draco merely shook his head, still unconvinced and uneasy, and signaled the waitress to bring another couple of bottles for the table. Given the clusterfuck this night was turning into it, he thought might need one of them all for himself.

(x) (x) (x)

Inevitably, there was a line for the ladies' loo. Pansy elected to while away the time critiquing the other women's jewelry.

She shuddered at Katie's rubies. "The size and clarity are well enough, but red gemstones are so _gauche_."

She sniffed at Hermione's charm bracelet. "Draco got me a nicer bracelet with his pocket money when he was fourteen. And of course he would pick a book for your first charm."

She pronounced Cho's engagement ring "adequate. My stone is larger, though," Pansy bragged, holding out her left hand to flaunt a square-cut diamond flanked by emeralds. "When is the wedding?" she inquired.

"Next Saturday," Cho replied, stony-faced.

"So as soon as the banns could be posted, hmm? Any particular reason for that?" Pansy asked, with a pointed look at Cho's abdomen.

"No particular reason, and it's a registry wedding," Cho stated in a flat voice.

Hermione's attention was caught by the diamond and emerald band on Pansy's ring finger. "You're married, Parkinson?"

Pansy gave a tight smile. "Five points to the bushy-haired know-it-all. That's the usual significance of a wedding band. Technically, it's Mrs. Urquhart now, but I usually try to forget the existence of my husband."

"D'ya mind if I go first?" Katie asked as they moved to the head of the line, looking a little bit desperate. "Of course, with the sprog, I'll probably just have to get back in line for the loo as soon as I'm done," she added jokingly, trying the lessen the tension among the other three women.

They shook their heads and Katie made a beeline for the vacant stall. A second stall opened up and Pansy walked forward to take it, nose in the air, and slammed the door behind her.

"I can't recall ever disliking someone more upon meeting them," Hermione observed. "What a bitch!"

Cho gave her a chilly smile. "Personally, I would reserve my hatred for Zabini. If I had a scalpel with me, I would stick it between his ribs."

"He is very creepy." Hermione agreed, "Like a serial killer." She paused, then plunged ahead. "You seem to dislike me, too, though I can't remember doing anything to offend you."

Cho looked at her in silence for a moment, her eyes inscrutable. "Would you remember if you had?"

On instinct, Hermione opted for the unvarnished truth. "Not if it was before June 1999. I suffered a head injury then and lost a significant portion of my long-term memories that precede that date."

"Interesting," Cho commented in a clinical manner. "That type of permanent or semi-permanent retrograde amnesia is exceedingly rare. As it so happens, I suffer from it myself."

"Perhaps that is why your boyfriend expected us to find common ground," Hermione offered. Even though Theodore shouldn't know about her memory loss, when she hadn't even told Malcolm yet, she sometimes suspected her boyfriend knew more about her than he let on.

Cho glanced at the loo stall Pansy was occupying. "Give me your mobile number and I'll call you next week."

Hermione quickly complied, before Pansy could finish. "Please do call. We can compare notes."

Cho nodded. "I don't think we can be friends," she told Hermione coldly, "but perhaps we can be allies."

(x) (x) (x)

With more than a few drinks under his belt, Draco was beginning to realize the appeal of Muggle hip hop music. It encouraged a bump and grind sort of dancing which, with the right partner, was only a few layers of clothing removed from vertical shagging in a public place.

Granger was the right partner, gyrating her hips against his groin in a teasing promise of what he could expect later. Just now, she was dancing with her back to his front, rubbing her arse against his erection and tilting her head back so he had an excellent view down her shirt. He nipped her neck and ran his hands down her sides and over her flat stomach.

She spun around to face him so they were dancing nose to nose. "Let's go back to your flat," she suggested, eyes dark with want.

Tempting as it was, Draco shook his head. "It's not even midnight, princess. Do you really want to call it a night when the pregnant lady is still going strong?" He jerked his head to the left, where Katie was dancing energetically with Flint.

Hermione stood flush against him, swaying in time to the music. "I'm suggesting that we go to bed, not that we go to sleep. We wouldn't call it a night for quite some time," she purred in his ear.

"Do you want to find someplace private, to take the edge off?" Draco suggested, cupping her arse to pull her closer. At her eager assent, he grabbed her hand and pulled her off the dance floor, towards a convenient janitor's closet he'd noticed earlier.

"It'll be locked," Granger objected. Draco tried the handle, and it was indeed locked.

"That's what this is for." Draco held aloft his hawthorne wand, Glamoured to look like a Muggle prop. He gave it an exaggerated flourish and uttered a dramatic "abracadabra," camouflaging his silent Unlocking Charm. The handle yielded under his hand. "It was just stuck before," he assured a wide-eyed Granger before tugging her inside and shutting and locking the door behind them.

She was on him immediately, kissing him hungrily and winding her hands through his hair while rubbing herself against him.

"Someone's eager," he observed, smirking, pulling his mouth from her neck.

"Pot, kettle," she echoed her earlier comment. This time, with her hand stroking his hard length, Draco was much less offended.

"Ladies first," he told her, removing her hand and reaching down beneath her skirt to strip off her knickers. Carefully, he tucked them in his shirt pocket, arranged to look like a handkerchief to the casual observer. "I'm keeping these for the rest of the night," he told her, as he plunged two fingers into the heat and wetness between her legs.

Granger was gratifyingly responsive. Between the thrusting of his long fingers, curved just so to hit the spot that made her cry out on every pass, and the adept circling of his thumb, it was a matter of minutes to get her to climax. When the convulsive clenching against his fingers subsided and she briefly sagged against him, Draco withdrew his fingers and held them to her mouth. "Suck them clean," he told her.

She complied willingly, making a bit of a production by swirling her tongue. Draco grinned at her antics and placed his hands on her shoulders to press her down onto her knees. He leaned back against the locked door for support as she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers, barely registering the feel of smooth wood against the competing sensations of Granger's circling tongue and warm mouth.

As he fisted his hands in her curls to guide her bobbing head, an objective part of his mind couldn't help comparing her to his wife. Astoria's technique was much more polished, but she had been working to perfect it for years, practicing on the entire Slytherin Quidditch team. If he ever refused her alimony, she could go pro in Knockturn Alley.

Hermione, in contrast, brought a diligent willingness to please to her task that Draco found equally as arousing. Just right now, he'd give her efforts an "E," but she could easily earn an "O" with a bit of practice. His hips jerked forward of their own accord at that thought and she gagged. Draco moaned at the fluttering sensation around his sensitive head even as he stroked her hair in apology. "Sorry, pet. You're making me lose control."

Hermione tried her best to take him deep again, hollowing her cheeks and relaxing the back of her throat. "Oh, fuck, yeah! Do that again!" he urged.

As she repeated the action, he removed his hands from her hair and clutched blunt fingernails into his palms to restrain himself from taking over and fucking her mouth. "I'm almost there," Draco warned her, getting the hoped-for response as she hummed in affirmation and continued to suck and then swallow, choking slightly but keeping her mouth around him until he had finished. Hermione licked him clean, a ticklish sensation now that he was spent, and tucked his cock back into his boxers carefully before zipping up his trousers. Draco admired her attention to detail.

Solicitously, he helped his girlfriend to her feet and kissed her with an open mouth, uncaring that he was tasting himself on her tongue.

She broke off the kiss, her eyes round and dark with uncertainty. "Was that okay?" she asked hesitantly. "I haven't done that much."

"Thank you," he said, with complete sincerity. "It was completely, utterly brilliant."

And now, not even a stickler like Nott could dispute that he'd just won their little bet.


	13. Chapter 13: Tricks and Treats (Part 2)

**A/N: Thank you to those of you who have so quickly reviewed chapter 12, posted earlier today! DinaTheCat, Colubrina, ordinary vamp, Grovek26, dutch potterfan, dragonwingedangel, SusanMarieS, Etoile Black, surugasasa, and Gunnhildde: your timely comments are quite appreciated. **

**Warnings for this chapter: first, if you haven't already read the clubbing scene, you'll want to check out chapter 12 before reading this. This chapter is M-rated for sexual content and violence. As noted in a prior author's note, I will provide a dub-con trigger warning so long as Hermione doesn't know who her boyfriend really is. Due to alcohol use and other factors, this chapter is one I would label with a dub-con warning regardless. **

**_October 31 - November 1, 2003_**

After their interlude in the janitor's closet, Draco and Hermione had rejoined their merry little group. Flint had taken one look at Granger's wild hair and reddened mouth and Draco's air of smug satisfaction as he solicitously passed her a fresh drink and had paid up, passing a thick wad of pound notes under the table in a manner that was far from stealthy. Theo, thin-lipped, had quietly promised to send a Gringott's draft in the morning.

The next couple hours were a blur of drinks and dancing, with Flint buying trays of tequila-infused Jell-O shots and insisting on their consumption, and Justin the Hufflepoof showing his laughable moves on the dance floor. Draco had his own private source of amusement in knowing that his swotty little girlfriend was shaking her arse to the music without any knickers on under her short Hogwarts skirt. That knowledge made him increasingly aroused as the night went on, until he couldn't wait to bury himself inside her.

When their party broke up shortly before three in the morning, he hauled Granger into a taxi, gave the driver the address of his Knightsbridge flat, shoved a ten-pound note in the man's hand, and told him there would be another twenty quid if he drove fast and didn't look into the backseat. Draco had then proceeded to snog and tease Granger until she was as riled up as he.

At his flat, he fumbled with the key in the lock, ultimately mumbling an "_Alohomora_," because he was too tipsy to pull off a silent spell and didn't think his girlfriend would notice, not after all the vodka tonics and tequila shots she had drunk.

Despite it being her first visit, Granger barely spared a glance for the elegant flat, with its beautiful moldings and original details highlighted by a mix of clean-lined, contemporary furniture and antiques. Instead, she just looked up at him with big, brown, slightly unfocused eyes. "Bedroom?" she inquired.

"Study," he answered with a smirk, pushing her none too gently through a door to the right. It was the one room he had furnished in a wholly traditional manner, with a mahogany desk dominating the room and shelves of leather-bound books lining the walls. In the morning, Hermione undoubtedly would want to inspect them all, but just right now she was moaning into his mouth as they kissed and unbuckling his belt as he walked her backwards to the desk.

He hoisted on her onto the desk's surface, ripped the vest over her head, and unbuttoned her Oxford shirt as fast as his fingers could fumble. She had shoved his cloak off somewhere between the flat's front door and the study, and was making quick work of his shirt's studs even with alcohol-clumsy fingers.

Draco hissed softly as her tongue circled one of his flat nipples. "Minx," he told her.

"I know," she looked up from under her lashes with a smirk, one thumb rubbing his other nipple.

"Since you know so much, do you know why I brought you to my office, Miss Granger?" Draco asked with mock-sternness.

Granger might be drunk, but she was never stupid, and she immediately picked up on his roleplaying. "No, sir, I have no idea," she replied, eyes wide and radiating innocence, both hands now clasped in front of her.

She was very good, although her act was compromised by the fact that she was naked from the waist up save for a very racy bra. Draco could see why she served so few detentions back at Hogwarts despite getting into nearly the same amount of trouble as Potter and Weasley.

"You were caught in a broom closet with a boy, Miss Granger. Were you snogging him?"

"No, sir," she repeated in the same innocent tone, before leaning forward to whisper, the tip of her tongue circling the shell of his ear. "I was on my knees, sucking him off."

"Tut-tut, Miss Granger," Draco shook his head in feigned reproof as he unclasped her bra and palmed her breasts, thumbs flicking her rosy nipples. "_That_ is not the sort of behavior this school expects of a prefect and would-be Head Girl." He smirked at the unintentional pun before continuing. "I shall have to inform the headmaster and your head of house."

"Please, sir, don't tell them!" Granger begged, still in character. "Couldn't I serve a private detention with you, instead?"

Draco smirked. "I thought you'd never ask."

He removed his hands from her chest and stepped back a pace. "Turn around, Miss Granger."

With a show of reluctance, she complied, giving him a saucy wink over her shoulder before reverting to the schoolgirl role. "What should I do next, sir?"

Draco's cock was too impatient to draw this out much longer. "Bend over the desk, Miss Granger. Flip up your skirt."

She obeyed, and he ran a caressing palm along the bare cheeks of her arse. "Now spread your legs. Wider."

Draco stepped forward, between her thighs. With her knickers still in his pocket from earlier, she was fully on display to him. He pressed one long finger deep inside her, confirming that she was more than ready. Hermione whined deep in her throat as he rotated the single digit. "More, please. Sir," she gritted out.

"Not just yet, Miss Granger. Are you a virgin?" he inquired, continuing to tease with one finger.

"No, sir," she managed.

"No?" Draco echoed in feigned surprise, adding a second finger. "You're still so tight. How many boys have fucked you, Miss Granger?"

"Can't remember," she gasped.

"You filthy little slag," Draco commented, softening the dirty talk with a kiss between her shoulder blades. He was a bit surprised at the truthful answer. Having been Obliviated, she had no recollection of her sexual history before the age of nineteen, but she normally would have made up some plausible number. "I'll have to fuck you very hard to make certain you don't forget about me, won't I?"

His only answer from Granger was a frustrated sort of growl as he removed his fingers. Draco hastily shoved his pants and boxers down, freeing his cock. As he entered her, hard and deep, one final thought filtered through the rational part of his mind as she arched her back and cried out his given name.

It wasn't just the sheer animal pleasure of fucking her, the tightness and warmth that he craved as he thrust into her again and again. It was the singular, illicit gratification of knowing that he was fucking Hermione Granger, Gryffindor's Mudblood princess and the brains of the Golden Trio, and that she was so sweetly willing precisely because she had no idea who he was.

(x) (x) (x)

Sometime in the middle of the night, Draco woke up with a dry mouth and pressing need to relieve himself. He blamed both conditions on Flint and his insistence that everyone except Katie take multiple tequila shots. After going to the loo, he silently made his way back to the master bedroom.

Hermione, as per usual, was deeply asleep, sprawled in the middle of his four-poster bed. Tonight, she was sleeping on her back, with her arms stretched over her head and the dark cloud of her wild hair. Staring at her body outlined under the sheet in the dim illumination of the streetlights and the way her wrists were criss-crossed on the pillow, Draco felt his cock begin to stiffen.

At Hogwarts, beginning in his third year, he had wanked off repeatedly to images of Granger in his head. Over time, he had developed three favorite fantasies: having her suck him off on her knees in a broom closet, bending her over a teacher's desk and fucking her from behind, and tying her up in his dorm room bed and playing with her until she begged for his cock. He saw no reason why he shouldn't experience the full trifecta tonight.

He had pulled his trousers back up after shagging Granger in the study and then discarded them somewhere on the bedroom floor. After a brief search, he found them, with his wand still in the left pocket. Ordinarily, he wasn't so careless, but alcohol and lust had impaired his sense of caution.

Draco glanced stealthily at the bed to make sure Hermione was still sleeping. Having reassured himself, he pointed his wand towards the door.

"_Accio_ my Slytherin tie."

He captured it in his hand as it flew up the stairs from the study, where he had stripped it off Granger. On quiet feet, Draco approached the bed, wand in his left hand and tie in his right. With a whispered "_Incarcerous_," Granger's wrists were bound together and tethered to the headboard, the scar on the inside of her forearm facing up, with the crudely scrawled "Mudblood" legible even in the dimly lit bedroom.

Draco carefully placed his wand under the pillow and knelt over the sleeping witch, beginning to work his way down her body with open-mouthed kisses and licks and stroking, exploring fingers.

"Time to wake up, princess," he murmured darkly.

(x) (x) (x)

It started off as a very pleasurable dream. Skilled hands massaging her breasts, replaced by fingers pinching and rolling one nipple just so while the tip of a tongue teased her other nipple into an equally hard peak.

Those hands moved lower, stroking up and down her legs. Hermione parted her thighs and canted her hips upwards, encouraging the phantom owner of the fingers to place them where she wanted - no, needed - them. "Please. Please touch me," she whispered.

She continued to beg for _more_, grinding herself on two long fingers, than three, seeking that delicious release. Just as she was on the verge, the fingers were withdrawn and she whimpered in protest.

"What do you want, pet? My tongue or my cock?" Malcolm asked. His tone was darker and somehow rougher than normal, and Hermione peeked open her previously closed eyes to confirm it was he. Her boyfriend was looking up at her from between her thighs, a hungry smirk on his face.

"I want your cock," she told him, without hesitation. As skilled as he was with his tongue, she wanted the sensation of being stretched and filled.

He eagerly complied, clambering up her body to position himself and entering her with a swiftness that made her gasp. Hermione was still exquisitely sore from being bent over his desk earlier and fucked with a force that had come close to being brutal. Her mind was too hazy with sleep and tequila to recall if she had come twice or three times, but she knew she had loved it.

She shut her eyes again to focus better on the sensation of overwhelming pleasure mixed with a delicious sort of pain as her boyfriend rode her hard. The restraints at her wrists were arousing but frustrating, limiting her to wrapping her legs around Malcolm's hips to encourage him to go deeper and tightening her internal muscles in a way that had him gasping obscenities.

Hermione was gasping herself, her normally extensive vocabulary reduced to monosyllabic begging, profanity, and her boyfriend's names. "So close," she moaned. "Fuck me more, Draco. Please!"

"Open your eyes," he commanded. "I want you to see who's fucking you, who's making you come."

With a smile, she shook her head. "No, Malcolm. Make me." This was a game they'd played a few times in bed, one of them trying to persuade the other do some little thing. He would now resort to various intimate methods to try and obtain her compliance.

In a deliberate attempt at distraction, she arched her back and clenched him tightly, earning a nip to her earlobe. "You play dirty, Granger. I dare you to do that again."

So of course she did, causing him to groan in pleasure. "You filthy, dirty little witch."

He picked up his pace until her clenching was involuntary and she was crying out his name.

"Look at me, Granger," he ordered again, through increasingly erratic thrusts of his own. "Look at me, _Mudblood_."

She snapped open her eyes to the sight of Draco Malfoy, his eyes silvery with triumph and his face contorted with lust. He had braced himself against the headboard for greater leverage and the Dark Mark was prominent on his arm as he slammed into her a few final times before grunting softly in satisfied completion and slumping on top of her.

For a minute or longer, she lay silent and rigid beneath him, too horrorstruck to move or even react. Hermione kept closing her eyes and reopening them, willing herself to wake up from the nightmare that Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing Death Eater ferret, had just finished shagging her _and she had liked it_. She pressed the thumbnail of one bound hand into the pad of her index finger, hoping the sharp pinch would bring her to a different reality. No matter what she did, it didn't change the fact that she could still feel him deep inside her, with his stickiness seeping between her legs.

Malfoy hadn't noticed anything was wrong at first, caught up as he was in his own climax. But now he was staring down at her, an utterly foreign expression of tender concern discernible on his face.

"Hermione, are you alright? Please tell me I didn't hurt you, pet," he pleaded, carefully disengaging his body from hers and gently stroking sweat-damp curls off her forehead.

And that was when she struck.

(x) (x) (x)

Draco was reveling in the afterglow of one of the most intense orgasms he could remember, his forehead touching Hermione's as his heartbeat gradually slowed and his cock softened inside her.

Slowly, as he came down from that blissful high, he realized something was wrong. Granger was ordinarily cuddly and affectionate in the afters, wanting to pet him and willing to curve up against his body, only seeking her own space after she fell asleep. Right now, though, she was so still beneath him that he might have thought she had passed out from all the alcohol consumed over the course of the evening, except for the tension in her petite body.

He had been careful to support his weight on his elbows, so he wasn't crushing her, but Draco worried he might have gotten a bit too rough towards the end. She wasn't the only one in this bedroom who'd had a bit too much to drink.

"Hermione, are you alright? Please tell me I didn't hurt you, pet," he said worriedly, brushing her hair back from her face.

She looked up at him, her face contorted with rage and loathing.

"I am not your fucking _pet_, Malfoy," she snarled, as she slammed her knee into his groin.

He rolled on the floor, clutching his bits in agony, with Granger screaming abuse at him all the while. "Fucking Death Eater rapist scum! Motherfucking mommy's boy ferret! Do you miss bending over and taking it up the arse as Voldemort's little blond fuck toy?"

She switched to threats, thrashing against her bonds. " - cut off your prick with a dull knife and shove it down your throat. See how you like it, Malfoy!" Draco felt chilled, having no doubt that Granger meant every word she said.

Suddenly, it was mercifully quiet in the room. The only sound Draco could hear was his own harsh, labored breathing. He dared to hope that Hermione had passed out, and cautiously stood up, still cupping himself in pain, to verify if that was the case.

Her eyes were closed, but her forehead was knit in concentration and her lips were moving. Draco wondered if it was a prayer, but Granger, to the extent she was religious at all, seemed like a subscriber to the self-reliant Muggle philosophy that God helped those who helped themselves.

"-_um_. _Finite Incantum_. _Finite Incantum_."

"Oh, fuck!" The knots in his Slytherin tie binding her to the headboard were loosening. She was pulling off wandless magic, _deliberate_ wandless magic, before his very eyes.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" His wand was under the pillow, and if Granger loosed herself and found it, he was a dead man.

Frantic, he threw himself onto the bed, pinning her down, and scrabbled for his wand. Despite being tied up and so much smaller than he, Granger was fighting him like a wildcat, intent on inflicting real damage. He jerked his head back as she snapped at his throat, literally going for the jugular. Draco flung up an arm to defend himself and she bit deeply.

He grunted in pain but thanked Merlin it was his right arm Granger had sunk her teeth into. He had largely immobilized her thrashing legs with his body weight, and that gave him the breathing space he needed to grab his wand.

"_Stupefy_!" he said, and then howled in fresh pain as the spell backlashed, sending a searing pain radiating from around his wrist up his arm.

Draco sought about frantically for a gentler spell to incapacitate Hermione, coming up with nothing in his panic. He had always excelled at potion-making, but his ability to brew three different sleeping potions didn't do him a damn bit of good without having a vial at hand to pour down her throat.

Flitwick had taught them a Sleeping Charm in sixth year, but he had been a bit too distracted with killing the headmaster at the time to learn it. In desperation, he attempted the charm anyways. "_Somnus_," he swished and pointed his wand between his girlfriend's eyes, currently staring at him with pure hatred. Nothing happened, but at least the spell didn't hurt either of them. Unlike Granger's teeth, still clamped on his forearm. "_Somnolus_," he tried again, still with no result.

What had Flint done when Katie had been in hysterics over their daughter's magic? Certainly he hadn't slapped her, even if that was a prescribed course of action for a hysterical witch. Draco had no desire to hit or fight back against Granger, and knew he would be incapable of hurting her even to defend himself. "_Confundus_," he said, wand tip at her temple, at last remembering what had worked for Marcus.

Mercifully, it seemed to work for him as well. Granger sagged back against the mattress and released her teeth from his now-bleeding arm. Her eyes were wide with confusion and terror. "Malcolm?" she whispered. "What happened? Why am I tied up?"

He shushed her gently, running his hands quickly over the shoulders and arms to check if she had hurt herself, finding nothing more serious than a deep reddish chafing at her wrists. "You had a nightmare," he answered her first question soothingly. "It was awful, but it's over now, and I'll get you something to drink to help you fall back asleep."

Hermione began crying, like a heartbroken child. "I thought you were someone else - someone evil," she choked out between sobs.

"It's just me. It was just me the whole time," Draco said, trying to comfort her. He wanted to untie her, but couldn't risk it just yet. "I'm getting you a drink. I'll be right back."

Draco hurried from the room, painfully scuttling sideways like a crab, and trying to close his ears to his girlfriend's still-frightened sobbing. He had to call for Mipsy where Granger couldn't see, and send the house-elf to Malfoy Manor for Dreamless Sleep and a healing salve. And, most critically, to fetch books on Memory Charms, so he could figure out what had gone wrong and find out how in Merlin's name to fix it.


	14. Chapter 14: The Hangover

**A/N: Thank you, as always, for your reviews and comments on the last couple of chapters! As I mentioned in a few PMs, I had not previously written those types of scenes and really struggled with them. So, even more than usual, I appreciate the feedback received from karou104, Etoile Black, Colubrina, Clarabelle, DinaTheCat, dragonwingedangel, SusanMarieS, ordinary vamp, mythzzrosenov, surugasasa, blacknblu30, latina-pr, Calimocho, tooyaluvr, IpreferJasper, annaea3077, Kullan78, v-x-y-zz, ASJS, Meow-I-am-a-cat, Gullb3rg, Grovek26, and guests. The short answer to the guest question as to how Draco's behavior isn't triggering the Vow is that it picks up on intent, from both parties, and excludes deceit. **

**This chapter is tame compared to the Halloween chapters. Really, there is nothing to warn about except a bit of profanity and some twisted Draco-logic. **

**_November 1, 2003_**

Dawn was breaking and Draco's eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and hours of reading by the time he found a possible explanation for Granger recovering at least some of her memories, in a slim volume entitled _Mind and Memory Alteration Among the Indigenous People of the Americas_, written by a wizard shaman of the Navajo tribe.

The book included a single chapter on the use of herbs and plants to remove, alter or retrieve memories without use of a wand. Most of the text was devoted to peyote, but in a sentence near the end, the author noted that similar but more transient effects could be obtained from the use of fermented agave.

"Flint and his fucking tequila shots!" Draco swore.

He flipped through the book to see if there was anything else about agave that could be of practical use to him, but there was nothing but pages and pages of the shaman's lyrical descriptions of the visions he had seen after smoking peyote. Draco considered flinging the book across the room in frustration, but ultimately set it down on the crowded bureau with the other twenty or so books Mipsy had brought over from Malfoy Manor.

None of those books offered anything beyond reiterating the same unhelpful information that he already knew: Memory Charms could only be reversed by their caster or broken by torture. Draco hadn't reversed the spell he had cast on Granger - he didn't have a death wish, after all - and he certainly hadn't been torturing her when her memories resurfaced, no matter what she had screamed at him.

As a Death Eater, there had been two lines he managed never to cross. He had never murdered a defenseless person in cold blood, and he had never raped anyone. Draco certainly didn't expect an Order of Merlin for these dubious achievements, and knew his hands and wand had committed many other crimes at the Dark Lord's bidding, but Hermione's accusation that he was a "Death Eater rapist" had stung. Hell, it fucking _hurt_. That description applied to vile men like Zabini, not to him. As much as he got off on knowing something that Granger didn't, and quite frankly exploiting that knowledge, the Vow gave Draco confidence that he had not coerced her to do anything.

With a grimace due to his tender groin, he stood up and made his way to the master bedroom to check on Granger for probably the tenth time in less than four hours. She was still fast asleep, curled into a tight ball under the duvet. Draco had given her a smaller than usual dose of Dreamless Sleep, due to his concern about mixing it with alcohol, and as a result had no idea when she would wake.

"Is she alright, Mipsy?" Draco pitched his voice low as he addressed the house-elf seated in a chair, close at hand but outside of Granger's line of sight. She had been keeping watch over Hermione since returning from a series of urgent errands to the Manor in the wee hours of the morning.

"Miss is sleeping quietly now," the elf said, refusing to look at him.

"Thank you, Mipsy. You did very well in helping Hermione and me." In part, Draco was complimenting the elf in hopes that she would soften towards him, but he was mostly sincere. The vast majority of house elves would have carried out his disjointed orders of the night before literally, wasting time scouring the Manor's library before returning with books as well as the Dreamless Sleep potion and medical supplies.

Mipsy, accurately gauging the urgency of the situation, had brought the Dreamless Sleep within two minutes and helped him get Hermione to bed, between clean sheets and wearing one of his T-shirts, before returning to the Manor for everything else.

"Mipsy is honored to serve Miss and is guarding her now," the elf responded grudgingly to his praise.

"You don't need to guard her from me, Mips," Draco cajoled the house-elf.

"Mipsy is finding blood on the sheets and Miss is crying. You has been a bad, bad man, Master Draco!" The elf shot him a nasty look and then tapped her snout, very lightly, against the chair's cushion. "Oh, Mipsy is punishing herself for being a bad elf, saying such things about Young Master. Even if they is being true!" she added in a loud undertone.

Draco snorted at the elf's sarcasm, likely learned over four years of observing Granger. "The blood was mine, Mipsy. She bit me. You know I can't hurt her and you _should_ know that I don't want to."

"You is deserving the biting, for making Miss cry," the elf sniffed, but at least she looking at him now.

"Probably," Draco admitted, trying for a conciliatory tone. He did not appreciate being taken to task by a house-elf, of all creatures, but he knew he had pushed things too far last night. And he would need the elf's help if Granger's homicidal mood persisted.

Draco still had no idea what he was going to do with her when she woke up. Too much tequila had caused the problem, but he would be buggered if he knew the solution.

His current plan was to present her with two choices: he could take her into the Ministry of Magic, where a professional Obliviator would perform a comprehensive Memory Charm, taking away many of the precious memories going back to age eleven that he had left intact, or she could agree to having him Obliviate just her memories of the prior night, and her relationship with "Malcolm Foy" - with _him_ - would carry on as before.

He thought there was perhaps a chance he could reason with the witch, to persuade her to take the second option. Granger had always been level-headed for a Gryffindor, even calculating on occasion. Continuing to date him should not be a deal-breaker. Their attraction was undeniable, and it wasn't as though Draco had disguised himself with Polyjuice Potion in order to seduce her. He hadn't changed his personality for her, either, though admittedly as Malcolm Foy, Granger had seen his best traits, while at Hogwarts she had been treated to the worst. But they were all facets of who he really was.

If she chose to go the Ministry route, though, he would make sure Granger knew that a second wholesale Obliviation might cause enough damage to leave her a permanent resident of the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo's. If she still opted for Obliviation by one of the Ministry hacks in the face of that risk, he hoped the Vow would spare him from the consequences of her obstinacy.

It all sounded so plausible in his own mind, but he didn't think it would persuade a hot-tempered, stubborn witch who had already expressed an interest in his castration. And if she refused to be persuaded, Draco didn't know where that would leave them, because he wasn't yet ready to let her go.

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione woke up feeling utterly wretched. Her head was pounding, her mouth felt like it was stuffed with nasty-tasting cotton wool, her shoulders ached, and it was painfully obvious that she and her boyfriend had gotten carried away with their shagging the night before. To make matters worse, when she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her head spun and her stomach lurched in a way that had her staggering for the loo.

Her knees barely had a chance to hit the floor before she was retching violently into the toilet. The smell of stale alcohol and bile made her heave all the harder. In her misery, it barely registered that Malcolm had been a step behind her into the bathroom and was holding back her hair in a one-handed ponytail, his other hand tracing soothing circles on her back.

"Feeling better now?" he asked with surprisingly solicitousness once her stomach was empty, given her recall of the events of the prior night.

"A little," she croaked.

Hermione had never been a coward, and she decided to face the truth head on. "What happened last night?" she asked. "Did I have a nightmare?"

Malcolm regarded her closely, grey eyes flat with suspicion.

"The part where you thought I was an evil rapist? That was a nightmare," he answered after a moment, in a cool, emotionless voice.

"The part where you attacked me, took a chunk out of my arm and crushed my bollocks with your knee? That really happened." His tone did not change, and Hermione flushed dark red in mortification as he held out his right arm for inspection, with the imprint of her teeth a stark red against his pale skin.

"Oh, God! I am so sorry, Malcolm," she apologized. She reached out to touch the bite mark but flinched back when he drew away.

Hermione bit her lip. "Will you let me explain, or shall I just be going now?" She would understand if he no longer wanted anything to do with a deranged woman who had attacked him when he was at his most vulnerable.

"Of course I'll let you explain, Hermione." Malcolm looked at her with sympathy as he offered a practical suggestion. "But why don't you first brush your teeth, get a shower, and then we can discuss this over breakfast like civilized people?"

(x) (x) (x)

While she was showering, Malcolm left another of his soft, black T-shirts and a pair of his boxer shorts for her on the edge of the sink, with her pretty little charm bracelet on top of the folded clothing.

Outside the bathroom, she found her not yet ex-boyfriend waiting for her, fully dressed and freshly shaven. She immediately felt herself at a disadvantage, a feeling that persisted as he escorted her downstairs to a dining area off the kitchen. His manners were always excellent, but Hermione had the feeling that this morning Malcolm was walking by her side and carefully seating her at the modern glass table because he was fearful of what she might do if he turned his back on her. Politely, he poured mugs of tea for them both, playing the perfect host.

"Draco," she began hesitantly. His head snapped up and the mug clattered on the glass top, alarm apparent in his grey eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," Hermione apologized, feeling worse than ever.

"It's quite all right," he disclaimed, in that same flat, cautious voice he had been using with her all morning. "Have a scone?"

She shook her head. "I don't want to risk it."

"You still look a bit peaky," Malcolm agreed. "At least drink some tea. It will settle your stomach."

Hermione found that he was right. The tea was herbal, with prominent flavors of chamomile and ginger, along with something that was not quite mint but seemed vaguely familiar. Whatever the ingredients, she found herself sipping it eagerly, as it rapidly alleviated her headache and nausea.

Reluctantly, she sat the mug down and squared her shoulders. "So, I owe you an explanation."

Malcolm nodded, eyes wary and face blank, his left hand casually resting in his pants pocket even though his overall posture was tense. "I'm listening."

"More than four years ago, I was hit by a car while riding my bike. Even though I was wearing a helmet, I suffered a traumatic brain injury and I now have large gaps in my memory, going back several years before my accident."

After that blunt admission, Hermione stopped and took a sip of the comforting tea before forcing herself to go on. "From what I've been able to piece together, there was a year or so, after my parents died, where my life sort of fell apart. I dropped out of school and, so far as I can remember, spent months traipsing aimlessly around the countryside with a couple of boys, living in a tent."

Malcolm was watching her intently, his grey eyes as expressionless as glass. "That doesn't seem like you, but go on."

With unconscious resentment, her eyes raked over his cashmere jumper, pressed trousers, and polished shoes. "I doubt you've ever known what it's like, living on the fringes of society. I _do_ remember being hungry, and cold, and always feeling as though we were in danger."

She looked down at the table, and toyed with the book charm on her bracelet before continuing in a low voice. "It's not a memory, exactly, but I have recurring nightmares about being chased through a forest by men who want to snatch me. And in my nightmares, after they catch me, they take me somewhere and throw me down and then there's nothing but pain and blood and I wake up screaming."

Slowly, Hermione rotated the bracelet on her wrist, willing herself to continue confiding in the cold-eyed man sitting across from her. "Whatever awful thing happened to me, whatever it is that I'm suppressing, it has something to do with _this_." She placed her right arm on the table, scar facing up.

"Last night, when you called me a Mudblood . . . . It triggered something, and in my muddled mind I thought you were there. That you took part."

Two spots of bright color were burning in Malcolm's high cheekbones. "I should never have said that to you. It's just that - "

"Why did you call me that?" she questioned, desperate to know and somehow certain that he could tell her. "What does it mean?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking defensive. "I like dirty talk in bed, and I thought you liked it, too. I hope you know I don't mean what I say, that I don't believe you are filthy or a slag or any such thing. But I swear I'll never call you that word again."

"But what does it mean?" she cried.

"It doesn't mean anything," Malcolm told her, his firm tone at odds with the gentle finger tracing the letters carved into her forearm with his index finger. "I saw this last night and, due to all of those tequila shots and the lack of any filter between my brain and my mouth, I blurted it out. And I'm sorry for what I did, more sorry than you can ever know."

Hermione stared at him, astonished that he was apologizing to her after she had attacked him. She had no doubts as to his sincerity, however. The steely coldness she had seen in his eyes all morning had thawed and his guard was down.

"Please, Hermione, will _you_ forgive _me_?" Malcolm asked.

"Of course," she agreed quickly, so quickly that it was only later that she realized the incongruity that he had sought forgiveness for what he _did_, rather than what he _said_.

(x) (x) (x)

Draco was thankful that he had training in the art of Occlumency, as well as years of experience in maintaining the cool demeanor expected of a Malfoy, because otherwise he would be whooping with laughter and gleefully skipping around the room. The last time he had felt such an exhilarating sense of relief had been when he was sixteen, and had by some miracle fixed the Vanishing Cabinet and earned his family a reprieve from the Dark Lord.

_Granger didn't remember_. He had spent the morning scrutinizing her for any hint of dissembling, but there was nothing. Now that she had sobered up, whatever crack in her mind had let her Obliviated memories resurface was sealed up again, and she was drowning in guilt from having attacked him. Draco was keeping count, and she already had offered him five abject apologies in less than an hour.

While there had been a significant period of time in his life where he would have enjoyed making Granger grovel and would have milked his injuries for sympathy, his Vow was a funny, pesky thing. Draco found himself equally unhappy in the face of her misery, and desperately wanting to make her feel better. He was starting to get an idea why Flint and Nott, ruthless bastards both, were each so absurdly sweet with Katie and Cho.

Draco had begun to realize that his promises to watch over Hermione, to protect her from harm, and to refrain from hurting her, all exerted a stronger pull as he spent more time in her company. He also had noted that the Vow's ambiguous terms seemed to hinge on her mood. Draco cynically thought that was only to be expected from an Unbreakable Vow drafted by a witch, most likely the same clever witch presently splashing around his oversized bathtub like a playful otter while chatting with him about their plans for the day.

He told himself that the Vow explained why he held back her hair when she was sick, why he had dosed her morning tea with a hangover potion, why he insisted that Granger take a hot bath to relieve the strain in her shoulders, why he had nipped over to her flat to fetch clean clothes while she was bathing, and why he had suggested an excursion to the Bodleian library so that she could review a few rare references that she had been coveting in the manner of a three-year-old hankering for sweets. Because any alternative explanation would be wholly unacceptable.

"As much as I'm enjoying the view, now that the bubbles are all gone, you're going to shrivel into a prune if you stay in much longer," Draco told her. "And didn't you want to catch an earlier train to Oxford?"

That was enough to get her out of the tub. "Would you hand me a towel, please?" she requested.

Draco stood up from his perch on the edge of the sink to comply with her request, taking his time while doing so to admire her wet, naked body. For at least the next few days, he would be confined to looking rather than touching after the number she'd done on his family jewels, so the least Granger could do was to allow a lengthy perusal.

She apparently disagreed, grabbing the towel from his hand and swatting him with it before wrapping it around herself. "Pervert! You've been leering at me for the last ten minutes already!"

"Play nice, Granger, or you won't get that lovely massage that I promised you," Draco warned. It was a bluff; he had seen her wince when reaching for the towel and was determined to get Mipsy's healing salve on her, one way or another.

She decided to play nice, though, laying face down on the bed as soon as she'd donned her knickers and pulling the towel down to her hips to give him full access to the smooth expanse of her back and shoulders. As he began working the ointment into her skin, Granger squirmed happily and mewled under his hands, leading Draco to smirk. Under her prim exterior, she really was a sensualist.

He ran a finger along her spine. "Do you have any plans for the weekend after next, pe- princess?" In addition to Mudblood, Draco was also excising "pet," from his vocabulary, at least as an endearment addressed to Granger. Only a fool would consider a lioness a pet.

"Nothing specific," she murmured in distraction.

"Good," he declared. "That means I can take you away for a mini-break. Do you prefer Dublin or Paris?"

He felt her predictable objection in the slight, renewed tension in her shoulders before she could give voice to it.

"Consider it a rather elaborate form of apology for everything that happened last night," he offered. Draco was feeling a bit of morning-after regret about the manner in which he'd won his bet with Theo and Flint, and hoped that spending his winnings on Granger would calm his squeamish conscience.

"I thought you had declared any further apologies _verboten_." Granger rolled over slightly to look him in the eyes.

"Ah, but that was specific to your apologies tendered to me," Draco said lightly, pressing her back down and continuing to knead her shoulders. "Among other things, I shouldn't have tied you up, at least not without getting your permission first.

"Dublin, then," she said after a brief consideration, her answer muffled by the mattress. "I passed through Paris in August with my godparents, but I've never been anywhere in Ireland. At least, not that I can recall," she added, a little sadly.

She turned her head to one side, eyes closed as he continued his ministrations. "You needn't be so apologetic about tying me up, you know. Before everything went pear-shaped, I was rather enjoying the experience. I wouldn't object to trying it again, without the tequila."

Draco's hands smoothed down her back. The memory of Hermione Granger tied up in his bed was one that he would cherish, but still he hesitated. "But what if that triggered something?"

Granger cracked open one eye and smiled in a way that made his pulse pick up. "We could pick a safe word. And you do have a four-poster bed."

Draco was too enthralled by the mental image of her naked, spread out, and willingly restrained at the ankles and wrists on his bed to pay much attention to the first part of her reply. "Sure, yeah, a safe word," he vaguely agreed.

She propped herself up on one elbow, musing over an appropriate word. "It needs to be something I wouldn't ordinarily say to you in bed, like an vegetable or an animal. Something so memorable that it would stop you in your tracks, as it were."

Her smile shifted into a smirk, and there was a sly gleam in her golden-brown eyes. "I've got it!" she announced, looking him over. "Our safe word is . . . _ferret_."


	15. Chapter 15: Knowledge Is Power

**A/N: Thank you to last chapter's reviewers: mythzzrosenov, Aphrodite-Venus-uk, SephyBurden, Clarabelle, dutch potterfan, surugasasa, qiana, dragonwingedangel, Calimocho, Colubrina, tooyaluvr, NinaBinaBallerina, Grovek26, latina-pr, kaoru104, ordinary vamp andScribhneoir2264. I love to hear your thoughts as the story unfolds!**

**Warnings for this chapter: some non-con and self-harm references, as more of Cho's background comes out. Also mentions of offscreen violence. **

**_November 7, 2003_**

Cho was already seated at the café they had picked for their lunch meeting when Hermione arrived, with her sleek black hair hanging loose and her face partially shielded by _The Sun_. A steaming cup of green tea and individual-sized pot occupied the table in front of her.

"I apologize for ordering before you arrived, but I pulled a twelve-hour shift overnight and had only four hours of sleep this morning. My need for caffeine was approaching a critical level," Cho said in greeting.

"That's perfectly understandable," Hermione responded, taking a seat opposite Cho and glancing at her newspaper. "Somehow, I didn't take you for a tabloid reader."

"Typically, I'm not, but Theo left this under my door with a note. He thought I'd find this article to be of interest." Cho gestured with one graceful hand, her engagement ring glinting. "So might you."

"'E'-Z Does It," screamed the lurid headline, followed by, "Clubgoer Castrates, Kills Self In Drug Frenzy." The accompanying picture showed a handsome, dark-skinned man in a sleeveless shirt and tight pants, identified in the caption as Blaise Zabini, and, according to _The Sun_, a fixture on the Soho club scene and suspected Ecstasy dealer.

"How awful, to die that young," Hermione commented on the former schoolmate of Malcolm's she had danced with just last Saturday.

Cho was unmoved. "What a trite observation. There are much better people who have died younger, still in their teens." From the sad, distant look in her eyes, she had someone specific in mind.

She took a sip of tea and her face hardened. "Personally, I am thrilled that he is dead. The women of London are just that little bit safer with his suicide."

"Did you know him before?" Hermione had taken her own measure of Blaise and did not disagree with Cho, but the other woman's icy vehemence was disturbing. "You seem rather . . . invested in his death."

"Like you, I wouldn't necessarily remember if I had known him. But I generally don't have a desire to stab people on making their acquaintance. So I assume I did know him, most likely in an unwilling, biblical sense," Cho said in a level voice.

"What happened to you?" Hermione asked, not entirely certain she wanted the other woman to answer. Her innate curiosity was at war with an instinctive sense that Cho's story was a harrowing one.

"The short story is that I was dumped at a police station in South Yorkshire, unconscious and wearing nothing other than a man's black cloak stained with various bodily fluids."

Cho went on, softly and bitterly. "At the hospital, they found no evidence of any immediate sexual assault, but I had quite a bit of scar tissue indicating repeated, forcible penetration on at least one occasion within the past months. When I woke up and couldn't remember what had happened to me, the police assumed I was a prostitute who had run afoul of my pimp or some punters."

"With respect to all of the sordid details, it's easier for me to show you than to tell you," Cho added, handing over a blue folder. "Suffice it to say that what was done to me was so brutal that I may never be able to have children of my own."

Hermione passed over a red binder of her own and began reading through the other woman's copies of police and medical reports. Taking out their biros, both began to read, making the occasional note or asking a soft-voiced, tentative question.

(x) (x) (x)

Draco and his father exited the lift into the Ministry of Magic's Atrium, dragonhide leather shoes clicking in tandem against the marble floor. Both men had matching satisfied smirks on their faces, following a highly successful meeting with the International Magical Trading Standards office. Over Percy Weasley's strenuous objection, they had secured the Undersecretary's support for a tariff on Russian sleep potions that ultimately would inure to the advantage of the bottom line at Malfoy Enterprises.

"Well done, Draco!" Lucius praised.

"Thank you, father," he responded off-handedly, taking it as his due. There was a time when he would have done back flips to hear those words fall from Lucius's lips, but Draco had realized years ago that the father he once idolized had feet of clay.

In the Atrium, on their way to the bank of Floo-connected fireplaces, they encountered the Notts, father and son, in an intense conversation next to the fountain. From the older Nott's heavy scowl and Theo's angrily flushed face, it was obvious their business at the Ministry had not gone as well.

"She overreaches herself," Nott, Sr. fumed. "A petty hag of a bureaucrat having the temerity to question _me_!"

"Not to mention her insult to my fiancée," Theo added in a dangerously soft tone.

"I have no objection to such sentiments about Mudbloods, but once we had shown her our proofs, Umbridge's tone should have changed. To refer to your future wife as a filthy whore - "

Lucius would have continued to eavesdrop until the Nott men noticed him, but Draco cleared his throat, interrupting Theo's father before he could embark on a full-scale tirade. Talk of Mudbloods easily could lead to mentions of Granger, and he and Narcissa had decided to keep his father in the dark until Draco had something - specifically, a healthy baby boy - to show from his liaison with Hermione.

The two older men acknowledged each other with the sort of urbane hostility normally reserved for heads of state whose countries are on the brink of war. Lucius then turned to Theo. "Congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. Who is the blushing bride?"

"Cho Chang," Theo said with more than a hint of defiance.

"Ah. Narcissa ordinarily tells me about these things, but I can see why you're keeping it quiet," Lucius commented maliciously.

"Don't you have more control over your son?" he asked the elder Nott. "Young wizards - and not so young - do enjoy rutting in the mud, but you of all people should know it's not necessary the marry the bitch first. Or even get her consent."

Nott, Sr. placed a restraining hand on Theo's wand arm. "It appears that mistakes were made in connection with Miss Chang's blood status. We are now in possession of evidence from the Zhongkui in Beijing showing at least three of her four grandparents were magical, evidence that was misplaced when their Muggle political upheavals in 1949 and the 1960s disrupted the magical world."

"Oh, is that so? I look forward to examining those proofs, which our esteemed undersecretary found to be so underwhelming." Lucius sneered, patently unbelieving. Draco had no idea whether Theo's Chinese documents were real or fake, and was far too savvy to ask his friend and expect to obtain a truthful answer.

Lucius had a parting shot for Theo. "Enjoy your honeymoon, my dear boy. I did not fully partake in Miss Chang's charms, but I do remember that she has a wonderfully talented mouth when properly instructed."

With that, Theo lunged at Lucius. Draco stepped between then, and Theo's father grabbed his arms to hold him back.

"He's not worth it," Theo's father snarled.

Draco silently agreed, but focused in getting through to Theo another way. "C'mon, mate. You're in the middle of the Ministry. This is not the time or the place for a wizards' duel."

Between the two of them, something brought Theo back to his usual, rational self. He nodded curtly at Lucius. "Say what you will to me, but if you or anyone upsets Cho, there will be consequences, Lucius."

Lucius sneered but said nothing further to the younger man. "I would be interested in seeing the documentation supporting the purity of the Chang girl's blood," he said challengingly to Nott Sr.

"Come back to my office now and you can examine it," the other man invited.

"Fuckers, the both of them," Theo sneered at the two departing wizards' backs. "They fucked us up, they fucked our women up, they fucked our entire world up."

Draco did not disagree, although Granger was thankfully less damaged by her torture than Cho had been by rape. "Want me to buy you a drink?"

Theo shook his head. "I still have things to do for the wedding, like filling out some Merlin-damned form to get the Wizengamot to recognize my marriage to Cho, even though she's a witch."

"I'll come with you," Draco offered.

He re-entered the lift, Theo in his wake. They were the only passengers. "Where are we going?"

"Level 2, Wizengamot Administration Services." Theo answered, still seething.

Draco pressed the button. "So, when and where do I show up on Saturday for your wedding? I've never seen a Muggle ceremony before."

Theo looked uncomfortable. "You don't, actually. We're just having Mark and Katie as witnesses."

"I see," Draco said, feeling snubbed.

"I would like to have you there, but I don't want to trigger anything with Cho."

"I wasn't there," Draco defended himself. "I never laid a finger on her."

"I know," Theo sighed before continuing. "But your father was, as he just so charmingly alluded to. Cho had a horrific nightmare on Halloween night. I think Zabini caused it, but she met you then, too, and your resemblance to your father is strong. I just don't want to risk it."

"Did Cho remember you on Halloween?" Draco asked, pressing a button to hold the lift doors closed so they could speak in confidence.

"No, but it sounded like she remembered Zabini and . . . others," said Theo, his face grim.

"Did she try to hurt you? Granger went after me on Halloween when she realized who I was."

"Cho and I don't sleep together," Theo admitted sadly. "My flat is next to hers, so I could hear her screaming through the walls."

Before Draco could ask Nott why he hadn't gone in to comfort his fiancée, Theo turned to him, eyes wide. "Wait, did you say Granger remembered you? As Draco Malfoy?"

"Oh, yes, she remembered me," Draco confirmed bitterly. "As Death Eater scum, Voldemort's bitch, ferret boy - the whole kit and caboodle. And then I Confounded her and she seemed to have forgotten it all the next morning, or chalked it up to a tequila-induced bad dream. Except that - "

"Except what?" Theo prompted.

"You know what a safe word is, right?" Draco asked.

Theo held up one thin hand. Draco noticed his friend's usually well-manicured nails were bitten to the quick and his cuticles were ragged, signs of his nervousness about his upcoming wedding. "Stop right there. I have no desire to hear about what you were doing with Granger that required a safe word."

"And I'm not Flint, so I have no desire to overshare with you," Draco retorted. "And we haven't used it yet, seeing as I'm still recovering from taking her knee to my bollocks last weekend. But I thought you should know that she chose 'ferret' for our safe word, which makes me worry she might be getting some memories back."

"She chose 'ferret,'" Nott repeated, taken aback. Then he grinned. "That's hilarious!"

"It's not funny," Draco growled. "I know I Obliviated _that_ memory out of her curly head. Hell, if I could, I would Obliviate everyone who saw Crouch turn me into a ferret and bounce me around the stairs. Sometimes, though, I feel like Hermione remembers a lot more than she lets on and is just fucking with me. And _not_ in the way I want her to be!"

After a quiet moment of deliberation, Theo shook his head. "As intelligent as she is, Granger is too straightforward to fool you about something like that. I suspect that she has some residual, non-magical memories of Potter and Weasley ragging on you in the Gryffindor common room. 'Ferret' is probably the nicest thing they ever called you and it's subconsciously a term she associates with you."

Theo's careful logic was somewhat reassuring to the blond wizard. "That makes sense, I suppose," Draco agreed. "I worry about the link between her subconscious and active mind, though, and just how much seems to seep through. Does Cho ever seem to remember what she shouldn't?"

"Not so much with the memories that Flitwick took, but all the time in her nightmares," Theo replied. "Now, may we go and get my license before the lazy Ministry buggers all head home for the weekend?"

Draco released the button and the lift doors slid open.

The two men exited into controlled chaos on the second floor, with a team of maroon-robed Aurors rushing into their vacated lift, Dean Thomas making it a point to shoulder Draco aside.

"Where are those wankers off to in such a rush?" he wondered.

Theo cast a _Muffliato_ as they walked down the long hallway leading to the administrative offices.

"Probably off to view Zabini's mutilated corpse. I read in the Muggle newspaper that he was found dead, penis cut off and throat slit. Apparent suicide." Theo was smirking, not pretending to feel even the slightest bit of regret or remorse.

"Zabini? That arrogant toe rag would never off himself," Draco said with certainty. "And no man in his right mind would do that to his own bits. Zabini was an evil fucker, but perfectly sane."

"True," Theo agreed. "Amazing, isn't it, what a wizard will do under the influence of the Imperius curse? And it leaves no evidence. The Aurors look into the suspicious death or every wizard or witch, but I expect they'll find nothing to warrant further investigation."

"But if Auror Thomas does come asking, where were you last night, Mr. Nott?" Draco mockingly interrogated him.

"I was at the Wizengamot's annual dinner, seated with the Chief Warlock. Excepting the ten minutes I was on stage, accepting an award for my legal work assisting with the adoption of war orphans," Theo told him with a sunny smile. "Wand oath?" he asked.

Draco discreetly touched the tip of his wand to Theo's. He did always enjoy a good whodunit.

"Before you ask, Cho - if anyone would even dream of implicating her - was at the hospital from seven in the evening on, including several hours in the operating theatre helping to save Muggle lives."

"My father," Theo added, "has come to regret his short-sighted brutality towards my fiancée and is doing everything in his power to have her recognized as a witch. He was buttonholing various Wizengamot members last night to lobby for her, but regrettably developed a migraine and had to leave just after my speech."

"Let me guess - he returned straightaway to Nott Court and your loyal house-elves put him to bed?" Draco asked.

"Got it in one!" Theo confirmed. "While 'I' remained at the Wizengamot dinner, periodically sipping from a hip flask to sustain myself. And if a Muggle happened to notice some skinny bloke with specs near Zabini's flat, there are a lot of people in London who fit that description."

"Fucking brilliant!" Draco praised him. This was the Theo he had grudgingly admired at Hogwarts, the slightly-built, bookish and motherless boy who nonetheless had never been bullied, because everyone knew about the viciousness that ran in the Nott family.

"I know," Theo agreed, with no false modesty. "Cho is rather hard to shop for, but I know this a wedding present she'll appreciate. I've set aside my memories of Zabini blubbering for her to enjoy in a Pensieve once she's permitted back in the wizarding world."

"Did you use her scalpel?" Draco asked curiously. Granger had relayed Cho's well-merited desire to stick her surgeon's tool into Zabini's black-hearted body.

"No," Theo shook his head, "She doesn't bring that home from the hospital." He grinned evilly. "I did, however, use her wand."

(x) (x) (x)

Two more pots of tea had come and gone, and a plate of sandwich crusts was nearly buried in notepaper. Both women owned laptops, but agreed that note-taking with pen and paper was more conducive to learning.

"This makes no sense!" Hermione complained. "The only commonalities are that in 1999, you and I both suffered a loss of a good portion of our memories from age eleven on. But that's it."

She ticked off the differences on her fingers, consulting her notes. "Your incident was in February, mine was in June. I was struck by a hit and run driver, while you were the victim of one or more sexual predators."

"Both are crimes," Cho noted.

Hermione shook her head. "Of a very different nature. Did the police check the semen on the cloak to see if it matched the DNA of any known sex offenders?"

"They claim to have checked and found no match, but they struck me as lazy, incompetent sods, the lot of them. Once the inspector decided I was a prostitute, the entire department was disgustingly eager to turn a blind eye towards any crime against me." Cho was understandably outraged. "The hospital staff at least saw that I received counseling, but it was more in the nature of 'do try not to be a sex worker anymore, dearie.'"

Hermione sensed that any comment about Cho's situation would be unwelcome, so she continued with her summary of the data. "You were left outside a police station in Rotherham, while I was found on a country lane in Wiltshire. Do you have any connection to that town or South Yorkshire more generally?"

"Not that I can recall," Cho said ironically. Both women suddenly laughed, in a shared moment of bleak humor. "Have you any connection to Wiltshire?"

"No," Hermione shook her head, "Other than it's where Malcolm grew up."

Cho looked up sharply. "Theo's family home is in a village called Upper Flagley, in Yorkshire. Rotherham is the nearest market town."

Hermione made a note of it. "Odd, but there are plenty of people who hail from those counties. How long have you known Theo?"

"Oh, more than four years. When I moved into my flat, he was already living down the hall," Cho replied.

"And I met Malcolm only a couple months ago, at a bookstore, so there's no commonality there." Hermione shook her head in frustration as the dots refused to connect.

"Do you have any old injuries, particularly of a sexual nature?" Cho asked. "I didn't see any mention of it in your hospital reports, but they may not have thought to look for evidence of assault under the circumstances of your accident."

"Nothing other than this," Hermione replied, pulling up her right sleeve. "Does 'Mudblood' mean anything to you?"

Cho hissed at the sight of the scar, but then shook her head in frustration. "It's gone. I know it's bad, but I've forgotten what it means."

"So you don't have anything like that on your arm?" Hermione asked.

"No, my scars are self-inflicted." Cho pushed up her cardigan to reveal thin white lines on both arms running from wrist to elbow.

"What did you do?" Hermione gasped, horrified.

"Slit my wrists when it all got to be too much, obviously. I thought you were supposed to be the bright one?"

Hermione paid no need to the other woman's caustic question. "How did you survive? That wasn't an amateur job."

"Why, thank you, Granger. I do value competence," Cho said with sarcasm. "And I even did it in the bath, to prevent clotting."

Cho readjusted her sleeves to hide the scars before answering. "Theo heard me through the walls, though I didn't think I made any noise. He called 999 and broke down the door of my flat to hold towels around my arms until the medics arrived." She smiled, an odd combination of bitterness and fondness. "We started dating soon after that."

"You do realize we aren't the only ones with scars on our arms," Hermione said. "Malcolm and Theo both have that skull and snake brand on their left forearms."

"I loathe that repulsive thing," Cho spoke intensely. "I still find it hard to believe that Theo let himself be talked into that kind of stupidity."

"I feel the same way about that disgusting thing on Malcolm's arm," Hermione agreed. "Do you think it's odd that we both suffered the same type of traumatic memory loss and then found ourselves involved with men who have that mark?"

"You're mixing cause and effect," Cho pointed out. "We met because your boyfriend and my fiancé were at school together, so any commonality we share through them should be discounted."

"Logically, I agree with you," Hermione conceded. "But - "

"But you still believe it may be important, even though you lack any rational basis for that belief," Cho finished the thought for her.

"Yes," Hermione admitted.

"I happen to agree with you, logic and rationality be damned. The problem, of course, is that you and I are the only two data points, which makes it difficult to discern patterns or develop a working hypothesis." Cho cupped her chin thoughtfully in her hand.

"Do you know whether Katie suffered any memory loss?" Hermione inquired. "Her partner has that same tattoo on his arm. I saw it on Halloween."

"I don't know, but we should ask. I was thinking of a more systematic approach, mining NHS records for amnesia diagnoses to see what we find," Cho said.

"Develop a database, as it were?" Hermione asked, already beginning to see the possibilities.

"Precisely. We'll have a bit of a delay since I'm not back at the hospital until after my honeymoon." Cho frowned in annoyance. "But after that, what do you say to a bit of interdisciplinary research?"

"I say, '_scientia potentia est,_"Hermione quoted.

"Knowledge is power, indeed," Cho concurred.


	16. Chapter 16: Patience Is a Virtue

**A/N: Thanks to last chapter's reviewers: Aphrodite-Venus-uk, SephyBurden, ladymagna1100, DLila, surugasasa, dutch potterfan, Calimocho, Clara deana, Grovek26, annaea3077, latina-pr, Matts Miss, EmilyWoods, dragonwingedangel, Guest (the answer to your aptly worded question is at least one), ordinary vamp, A Diabolical Angel, and qiana. Even when I'm having a no-good, rotten, yucky day, your reviews make me smile. **

**Warning: this chapter includes a Cho/Theo honeymoon scene that could be considered dub-con, because Cho doesn't know who her husband really is and because of what she pulls out of her medical kit. My personal take is that it's consensual but very, very sad. **

**_November 15, 2003_**

Despite the man's myriad failings, Minerva McGonagall would concede that Kingsley Shacklebolt ran a tight ship where meetings where concerned. This particular meeting of the Order of the Phoenix seemed likely to wrap up in under two hours, notwithstanding the adorable distraction of the month-old Thomas twins, and some interesting developments, including Cho Chang's wedding to Theodore Nott, Jr.; a shouting match between Dolores Umbridge and both Theodore Notts over Cho's blood status; and the apparent suicide of Blaise Zabini.

The Headmistress shifted her dozing namesake, little Minnie, to a more comfortable position on her shoulder as Dean Thomas closed the books on the Zabini case during the meeting's open discussion period.

"We investigated and found no evidence of a wizards' duel, so the Aurors see no reason not to accept the conclusion of the Muggle police that he did it to himself."

"What's your opinion about the case, Dean?" Bill Weasley asked.

The Auror gave his eldest brother-in-law an indifferent shrug. "Personally, if someone did murder Zabini, I'd rather give her a medal than send her to Azkaban."

Dean exchanged a meaningful look with Ginny, who had left Hogwarts before completing her sixth year out of fear about what Zabini might do to her while the Carrows turned a blind eye. "So consider me content to accept the official conclusion rather than sifting through the alibis of every witch he ever wronged."

The conversation shifted to speculation about Cho Chang's blood status. "D'ya think she might really be a pureblood?" Ron Weasley asked, mouth full of his mother's fudge.

His brother George shrugged. "She was snooty enough back at school, for sure. Always got shirty whenever Fred or I asked to copy her homework."

Shacklebolt's assessment was more factual. "I've examined the proofs, and they seem convincing. Mr. Nott clearly spared no expense and used ever bit of _guanxi_ he and his father have with the Zhongkui to compile them. Madam Undersecretary Umbridge is withholding a final decision for now, claiming that the ability to bear magical children is the hallmark of a true witch."

Angelina snorted. "In that case, can we banish that hypocritical old hag to the Muggle world?"

Professor Flitwick could shed no light on Cho's blood status. "Her parents spoke relatively little English, so we never had an extensive conversation about her family history. For what little it's worth," he noted in his squeaky voice, "they did not seem shocked when I told them Cho was a witch."

"If Cho wasn't Muggleborn, wouldn't Hermione have found that out, like she did for me?" Dean asked.

His wife shook her head decisively, causing her red ponytail to sway. "Cho never would have asked her for help. She was best friends with Marietta Edgecombe and neither of them ever forgave Hermione for jinxing her."

"That sneak Marietta deserved it, for trying to betray the D.A. to Umbridge!" Seamus asserted from his seat on the other side of Dean. "Hermione's jinx was bloody brilliant!"

"I agree with you," Ginny said, passing her other twin baby girl to her husband, "but Cho thought it was a horrible trick. She was also always quite a bit jealous of Hermione's friendship with Harry."

"Setting aside Miss Chang's blood status, which should not be of more than academic interest to anyone in _this_ room," Professor Sprout said, "should we take any steps to advise her as to Mr. Nott's true identity as a wizard?"

"I dunno, Professor," Seamus Finnigan replied. "I think we leave it up to Nott. Me Mam didn't tell my dad until after they'd been married. Bit of a nasty shock for him, but he got over it."

"It would have been an even nastier shock if your mother were a Death Eater," Bill Weasley noted.

"Don't insult me mam like that!" Seamus fired up.

Minerva broke up the squabble with an ease acquired over decades of instructing hot-tempered adolescents. "I tend to agree with Seamus. With half-blood marriages, it always has been left to the discretion of the magical spouse when to tell, so long as it is _after_ the wedding. My own mother did not reveal to my father she was a witch until I was born, when they had been married more than a year."

She held up a hand to forestall Angelina Weasley's protest. "I am aware that the parallel is not exact, because Miss Chang is a witch. However, due to her Obliviation, she is in the same position as a Muggle in her current ignorance of magic."

Hestia Jones was philosophical. "At this point, does it really matter if we tell her or not? The wedding already took place, correct?"

"Correct," Kingsley confirmed. "Saturday last."

"Cho's intelligence is of the skeptical variety, so even if one of us were to violate the Statute of Secrecy to tell her she just married a wizard, I highly doubt she would believe it," Professor Flitwick reasoned. "Mr. Nott seems very motivated to have her memories restored, so he will tell her in due course if he hasn't already."

Out of the corner of her eye, Minerva saw Mundungus Fletcher attempting to sneak into the room. Shacklebolt fixed him with a gimlet eye and Minerva smiled grimly to herself. She personally would have expelled the petty criminal from the Order of the Phoenix years ago for unreliability, untrustworthiness, and general incompetence, but Shacklebolt had kept him on out of respect for Dumbledore. At least Dung would not be shirking his responsibilities at this meeting.

"Mundungus, how kind of you to join us," Kingsley's voice boomed out. "Perhaps you can give us your report on Miss Granger?"

"O'course, Minister," Mundungus agreed, stopping in his tracks and removing a well-thumbed notebook from the interior of his cloak and flipping it to the correct page, leaning against the kitchen mantel as he spoke.

"Ah, yes. Saw the lass very late in the morning on the eighth of October. Looked to be in bloomin' good spirits after riding a broomstick all night. Gave me a nice pile o' pocket change when I asked."

"What have you been smoking, Dung? Hermione hates flying!" Ron objected thickly around yet another mouthful of fudge.

Bill grimaced at his youngest brother's table manners. "He's speaking metaphorically, Ron."

"Yeah, Ronniekins, he's telling us your ex-girlfriend finally got a decent shag," George jibed. "Right, Dung?"

The bandy-legged little man nodded and Minerva thanked sweet Nimue that Lavender had stayed at the Burrow to help Molly tend the Weasley brood. She was certain that whatever tactless thing was about to drop from Ronald Weasley's mouth would only upset his wife.

Ron frowned. "Moving through them rather fast, isn't she? Didn't Hermione just break up with another Muggle bloke?"

"That was back in August. I say good on her," George declared, earning an approving nod from Angelina.

"I zink zat you are being a hypocrite, Ronald," Fleur reprimanded with a toss of her hair. "You are 'appy with your wife, no? So be 'appy for Hermione that she has found a man who puts a smile on her face."

Ron still looked sulky. "I want to be the one to check on 'Mione before the next meeting, to make sure this Muggle isn't a complete wanker."

"I've already called dibs for the next visit with Hermione," Ginny asserted hotly. "I want her to meet the twins before the weather gets too nasty. So unless you fancy bat bogeys coming out of your nose, brother, you'll wait your turn."

"Fine," Ron huffed, "but I get to check in on her after you."

"Patience is a virtue, Ronniekins," George teased his younger brother.

Kingsley nodded his acceptance. "Is that all, Mundungus?"

The little man grinned. "If you'd like a bit o' a laugh, I had two Death Eaters ask me to buy'em a couple of doses of a WonderWitch lust potion. The Malfoy brat and Marcus Flint, the day after I saw our Hermione." Dung had recited this particular anecdote at the pub often enough that he no longer needed to consult his notebook to verify the exact details.

George grinned back at him. "Verity told me about that little purchase, Dung. I was worried for you, that you'd fallen for some underage charmer."

"No, no," Dung shook his head. "Not at this time in me life. I was jus' taking a commission fer those snake-worshiping bastards."

"Do you have any information as to who they were intending to dose with the potion, Mundungus?" Minerva asked, concerned for her students.

"Prolly themselves, so they could go bugger each other up and down Knockturn Alley," Dung answered.

Seamus, George, Dean and Ron whooped with laughter.

"I always thought that was they got up to in the Slytherin locker rooms!" Dean chuckled.

"So that's how Malfoy got Flint to let him play Seeker second year," George waggled his eyebrows. "It wasn't Daddy buying broomsticks for the team after all!"

"It is _not_ a laughing matter, Mr. Thomas, Mr. Weasley, if two Death Eaters are seeking to incite young girls to engage in sexual intercourse!" Minerva said sternly. "Particularly using a product that you sell to the wizarding public!"

"It's alright, Professor," George told her, with a cheeky grin. "The WonderWitch infatuation potions are nothing more than Muggle soda water with some sugary flavoring and food coloring added. That's why Fred and I added the disclaimer on the bottles that effectiveness depends on the weight of the boy and the attractiveness of the girl in question. It's a placebo, and won't make any of your students do anything they weren't already inclined to do."

"So," the redhead continued, "if Flint and Malfoy found themselves playing a spirited game of 'Where's Your Wand?' in a dodgy hotel room after drinking a WonderWitch potion, the potion is just a fig leaf for something they were going to do anyways."

"I am relieved to hear that, Mr. Weasley," Minerva said. She was relieved, too, that Mundungus had reported the WonderWitch purchase took place the day _after_ he observed Hermione. She had never trusted the Malfoy boy, and had caught him looking intensely at her favorite pupil in Transfiguration a few too many times for comfort.

"Mundungus, do you have anything else to report?" Kingsley asked, preparing to adjourn the meeting.

Dung consulted his notebook again. "Aye, there was one funny thing. So's when I look to count the change Hermione gave me, there in the middle of me palm is a bleedin' Knut!"

"She gave you a Knut?" Kingsley questioned, the lines of his body suddenly alert. Minerva felt the same jolt of tension and excitement. Throughout the kitchen in Grimmauld Place, heads swiveled expectantly in Dung's direction.

Shacklebolt held out his palm. "May I see it?"

Mundungus shifted from one foot to the other, an apologetic expression on his face. "Well, you see, Minister, it's like this . . . "

"You spent it, didn't you?" Minerva questioned, sharply enough that the baby she was holding made a sleepy whimper.

Dung nodded, shamelessly. "It was just a bleedin' coin. The barmaid at the Black Cat prolly still has it, not that I can tell one Knut from another, meself."

"Mr. Fletcher!" Minerva modulated her voice so as to not wake little Minnie, but her strict tone was one familiar to generations of Hogwarts troublemakers. "Each Knut is stamped with a unique serial number, identifying the goblin who minted it and the date upon which it was minted. If you had retained Hermione's Knut, it might have provided the Order with valuable information."

"It was sorta shiny," Dung offered.

Minerva was not pacified. "That does nothing to confirm, Mr. Fletcher, whether it was minted after June 1999. It makes a very great difference whether it was mixed in with Miss Granger's Muggle coins and overlooked when she left us, or whether it more recently came into her possession."

"I'll see what I can find out when I meet Hermione in December, Professor," Ginny Thomas volunteered. "Maybe ask her about foreign coins or just happen to try to pay with something with a Knut."

"That's fine, Madam Thomas, but please be mindful of the Statute of Secrecy," Shacklebolt warned. "It would not look good for Harry Potter's widow to be caught breaking the law."

"Don't worry, Kingsley," Ginny brushed aside his caution with a wink and all the reckless zest of one of Godric Gryffindor's own. "I won't get _caught _breaking the law."

(x) (x) (x)

With a stifled groan, Theo Nott - naked as the day he was born - rolled away from his equally naked wife and stared up at the bedroom ceiling of the resort's honeymoon suite, willing his throbbing erection to subside. When it refused to obey him, he cleared his throat awkwardly. "I'll just be in the loo for a few minutes."

Cho had also been looking at the ever-fascinating ceiling, but at that, she rolled over to face him, her eyes bright with tears. "I'm sorry, Theo. I thought - "

"Don't apologize," he cut her off. "_You _have _nothing_ to apologize for." Theo reached out to lightly stroke her shoulder and counted it as a victory when Cho didn't shrink away from him. "I can be patient."

Unlike Malfoy, who had the impulse control of a toddler - especially where Granger was concerned - Theo _was_ a patient man. He known Cho for more than a year as a casual, friendly acquaintance before they began dating. He had since dated Cho for more than three years in a largely chaste courtship, taking baby steps towards full intimacy as her trust in him grew. It was a testament to his patience that they could kiss on a bed, without clothing, and even do other things, but Theo had rather optimistically hoped that he would be able to consummate his marriage to Cho at some point during their honeymoon. Six days into a week-long vacation, with their flight back to London tomorrow afternoon, that was looking increasingly unlikely. When they did anything that approached penetration, she would freeze up and his wrist would begin to ache in a clear warning for him not to take things any further.

Relatively early in their relationship, Cho had told him what she knew and suspected about her past sexual assault. Theo knew far more. While he had only been present for the last hour or so of her ordeal, his father had been there the entire time. At Theo's request, he had gone into a Pensieve and compiled a list of every vile thing that had been done to Cho, every act she had been forced to perform, and every insult and mocking endearment used by her rapists. In addition to being patient, Theo was careful, and he would not set back the hard-won ground he had gained with his damaged witch by a thoughtless word or action.

Cho, regrettably, _was_ a damaged witch, physically and mentally. When he proposed, she had been forthright that she might not be able to bear children, and he had known how mentally fragile she was since her suicide attempt.

Theo was less concerned about the physical damage. Cho's injuries had not compromised her fertility, but rather increased the risk that she would be unable to carry a pregnancy to term due to the weaker nature of scar tissue. The Muggles had some relatively crude methods that might work, but Theo had also spoken in confidence to a sympathetic Healer at St. Mungo's, one of Cho's Ravenclaw housemates, who thought a series of strengthening charms would work to prevent a miscarriage. That was one of the reasons Theo was so anxious to have Cho back in the magical world.

The other reason was to address the mental damage caused by a gang rape she couldn't remember, except in her nightmares. Theo never wanted to restore her memories of the actual sexual violence that had been perpetrated against her, but he did want to her to know _why_ she had been targeted. It was not because she had been a prostitute, as the moronic Muggle police suggested, or even a victim caught up in a web of sex traffickers. It was because she had been a brilliant, feared fighter for the Light. Theo thought - or at least hoped - that would make a difference to her mental health.

Theo reminded himself to be grateful Cho was merely damaged, not entirely broken. When his father had advised him to undertake the Vow with a witch of child-bearing years, Theo had been largely indifferent when making his selection. Granger was the pick of the litter, in terms of magical power and ability, but Theo had not been tempted to contest Malfoy's claim. Her personality was too fiery for Theo's tastes. He thought that if Granger ever got her memories back, she and Malfoy would either kill each other or rule the world together.

Cho had been the most logical choice among the remaining younger witches. As a Ravenclaw, he knew she was intelligent, and from what he had observed in the chaos of the battle at Hogwarts, her spells were precise and powerful. His interactions with her in school had been superficial but not unpleasant. If he had to continue the Nott line with a Muggleborn, she was acceptable. Over the years, that cool logic had given way to much warmer feelings towards Cho. Theo did not know if he was capable of love - certainly his first wife, Daphne, had claimed he was not - but what he felt towards Cho was reasonably close.

The serious tenor of his thoughts had done nothing to alleviate his immediate physical problem. As he made to roll out of bed to masturbate in the shower like a randy adolescent, Cho forestalled him.

"If you want me to, I could touch you," she offered awkwardly.

Theo was tempted. His wife had a surgeon's skilled hands, and this was an act she was willing and able to perform for him. But in this instance, he didn't want the sweet torture of something less than what he really desired.

"That's a kind offer, love, but I can take of myself." Theo softened the rejection with an endearment and a smile, but apparently not enough.

"Kind? Bugger that!" Cho exclaimed, leaping out of the bed and storming towards the bathroom, stopping along the way only to snatch up his shirt and wrap it around her.

After a minute's worth of rummaging, she returned to the bedroom with a glass of water and two small white tablets in the palm of her hand.

"I am taking these," she told him with an icy sort of determination, "and then we are going to have proper sex like a proper married couple."

"We already tried that, and it didn't work," Theo said resignedly. Cho had brought Valium along on the honeymoon, but its tranquilizing effects could not overcome the residual memories of being raped. Alcohol, even in excess, had been equally ineffective. "Don't expect me to just carry on when you're stiff as a board and crying. I am not that much of a monster."

"It's not Valium," she informed him. "It's Rohyphol, which is about ten times more powerful. Popularly known as the 'date rape drug,' because in addition to the standard sedative and relaxant properties, it also lowers inhibitions and causes short-term amnesia."

"Are you certain about this?" Theo asked, feeling a gut-level unease, and not just from newlywed wife's willingness to misuse her prescription pad.

"As certain as I've ever been," Cho said, tossing back the pills. "It'll be about twenty minutes before they take effect."

She laid down back next to him, letting his shirt fall open to expose her body, and wound her arms around his neck. "You can kiss me in the meantime."

Theo did as directed. Kissing was something that Cho enjoyed without reservation, because it was something she had only ever done willingly, with nice boys like Cedric Diggory and Harry Potter. Death Eaters didn't kiss their victims.

Slow, sweet kisses became more urgent, and he slipped his shirt off Cho's body to trail more kisses down her neck and shoulders and then to her breasts. He could feel her body growing relaxed, bordering on limp, which was quite the opposite of how he was feeling.

Theo ran his hands down her body, stroking lightly and gently. Cho had closed her eyes and lowered her loose grip to his shoulders. A soft sigh escaped her, but it sounded like she was content. Hesitantly, he began to stroke lower, down her stomach and up her thighs. Cho mumbled something and Theo froze. This was usually the point where she tensed and the Vow exerted its influence. "Alright, love?"

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at him with blank, dark eyes. "Theodore Nott? What are you doing?" she asked, sounding confused.

"Just what you asked me to, love."

"Love?" she questioned, in that same soft and puzzled tone.

"That's you, Cho. I love you."

The reaction to his heartfelt confession was a soft, anticlimactic "oh," as her eyes rolled back in her head.

Her body, laying next to his, remained completely pliant as Theo resumed his tentative touches below her waist. Gently, he rolled Cho from her side onto her back and parted her thighs.

"Cho?" he said softly. When she gave no response, Theo risked reaching under the mattress to cast a lubricating charm. After a moment's consideration, he cast a fertility charm as well, with the Vow offering no impediment. He and Cho had talked about having children, and she wanted a child as soon as possible, _if _possible, perhaps with a second to follow several years down the road.

As he moved his body over hers, she remained like an unresponsive doll beneath him. Theo thought bitterly that this was not how he had imagined his first time with his wife, but perhaps he was getting what he deserved rather than what he wanted.

"I'm sorry," he repeated like a mantra as he slid in and out of her unresisting body. "I'm so very sorry."


	17. Chapter 17: In the Fair City of Dublin

**Thank you to those who read and reviewed the last chapter, despite the absence of either Dramione character and its sad ending. Colubrina, v-x-y-zz, Aphrodite-Venus-uk, Claradeana, surugasasa, dragonwingedangel, dutch potterfan, qiana, Guest, tooyaluvr, EmilyWoods, amethystfirechik, Grovek26, kaoru104, Guest, ordinary vamp, BelleBelles, latina-pr, andlatefebruary: I really do appreciate your thoughtful feedback!**

**Warnings for this chapter: implied/off-screen sex that could be considered dub-con solely due to Draco's deceit and an instance of violence at the tail end of the chapter (which is not as violent as it may appear at first blush). **

**Finally, a disclaimer so glaringly obvious that I hadn't previously thought it was necessary: This story is not a fluffy romance. If it were, it would be coded under Romance & Fluff rather than Drama & Angst. Also, while we're on the topic of blatantly obvious disclaimers, I am not JKR. **

**_November 16, 2003_**

The _tap-tap-tapping_ on the French doors leading to the hotel room's balcony began almost as soon as Hermione disappeared into the loo. Already half-awake due the departure of her warm presence from the bed, Draco swore grumpily as he pulled on a pair of discarded boxer shorts from the side of the bed. He grabbed his wand from underneath the mattress before going to find and _annihilate_ the source of the annoying noise.

The flight from London to Dublin on a Muggle airplane had been mercifully short, but still hellish, with the plane tossing in turbulence all the way across the Irish Sea. Granger had kept a white-knuckled grip on his hand the entire time, the other clasped around a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks, which was, along with the larger seat, one of the perks of taking Theo's advice and booking seats in first class.

Draco had a newfound empathy for Granger's fear of flying. He loved nothing more than the rush of wind in his face and the sharp acceleration of a racing broom, but now appreciated he might feel differently if his formative years involved being crammed into a narrow metal cylinder with a hundred-plus Muggles and having to rely on Muggle technology and a Muggle pilot to stave off otherwise certain death. The idea that the cushion under his arse would save his life in the event of a water landing, as the flight attendant claimed, was the barmiest thing he had ever heard. And that was saying quite a bit, considering that his demented aunt had resided in his family's home for more than two years.

Despite his own qualms about Muggle airplanes, he had offered Hermione as much comfort and reassurance as he could during the flight. Upon reaching the hotel room, he had his reward when she pounced on him. Granger apparently considered flying in an airplane to be a near-death experienced and wanted to celebrate their safe arrival in a life-affirming way, by shagging him rotten.

His witch had been positively filthy in bed last night. She even had the foresight to bring a few extra ties, allowing them to take full advantage of the bed's brass headboard and footboard. But despite all they they had done, the word "Mudblood" hadn't passed his lips and the word "ferret" hadn't passed hers.

All things considered, Draco felt he was entitled to a bit of a lie-in.

His father's eagle owl, perched on the balcony railing, apparently was of a different mind. The evil-tempered bird glared at him with its uncanny orange eyes and ruffled its feathers, clearly annoyed at having been kept waiting.

"How long have you been out here, you feathery menace?" Draco demanded.

The owl hooted and swiveled its head meaningfully in the direction of the unmade bed before offering the scroll clutched in its talon.

"That long? Good thing you can only hoot," Draco muttered, eyes narrowing as he read the letter from Lucius.

_Dear Draco,_

_You may want to consider retiring your current elf. I had to threaten the wretched thing with clothes before it would tell me your whereabouts, and then it claimed you were in Dublin with "young mistress." Since Astoria presently is in your mother's suite, crying about how you neglect her, I can only presume your elf is senile and is confusing __**your**__ mistress with __**its** __mistress. That is a mistake no Malfoy elf should be permitted to make. _

_There have been some urgent developments regarding the tariff on sleep potions. The Russians filed an appeal to the full Wizengamot late yesterday afternoon. I have scheduled a meeting with our solicitor at nine o'clock this morning. I expect you leave off tupping your little bit of fluff long enough to join us at the office. _

"Miserable, nasty-minded old bastard! As if I don't already spend enough time with him during the week," Draco muttered.

The owl nipped his finger in reprimand for his filial disrespect, nearly hard enough to draw blood.

"Ow!" Draco cried, adding a few choice insults about the mating and dietary habits of Lucius's familiar.

Glancing back at the letter, he appreciated Mipsy's attempt to keep his father from discovering where he had gone for the weekend, and her successful avoidance at identifying Hermione by name. He hoped his father had not bothered to discipline Mipsy himself. Left to her own devices, the elf would merely pat herself on the back and call it a "punishment" for defying Lucius.

Withdrawing into the hotel room, he grabbed a pen and scrawled "fine" at the bottom of the parchment. With a one-word answer, he could hope his father might not notice the use of a Muggle writing implement instead of a quill. He attached the letter to the owl's leg and it flew off with a taunting hoot and buffeting wing to the side of his head.

Hermione was emerging from the bathroom as he closed the French doors. She clutched his shirt more tightly around her and shivered. "Brrrr! What are doing on the balcony in just your shorts, other than giving the ladies of Dublin an eyeful?"

"I got a phone call from my father," he gestured to his mobile, charging on the bedside table. "I took it outside so as to not disturb you."

"Silly!" Hermione scolded, wrapping her arms around him in a loose embrace. "I was already up. Is everything alright?"

Looking down at Granger, Draco decided that his father's use of the phrase "a bit of fluff," was apt, if only in a purely physical sense. Hermione was a petite woman, with the top of her head tucking neatly under his chin. And especially first thing in the morning, her hair could fairly be described as fluffy.

"Nothing more than an annoyance. My father scheduled a conference call for this morning." In reality, Draco would be Apparating into the Wiltshire office and then back to Dublin.

"On a Saturday? While you're away on a holiday?" Hermione lifted her eyebrows.

In every other sense, Draco decided it was absurd to consider Granger a bit of fluff, with her sharp mind, sharp eyes, and sharp wit. He was finding it a delightful challenge to stay one step ahead of her, even with her lost memories.

He gave her a wry grin. "Working for my father isn't a sinecure, princess. If anything, he expects more of me than any other employee."

"That makes sense, I suppose." Hermione nibbled on her lip before pressing on. "He's not doing it because you're here with me, is he?"

"No, not at all." If Lucius knew his son and heir was taking a mini-break with Hermione Granger, he would do a lot more than schedule an inconvenient meeting. "What makes you ask that?"

"Your friend Blaise told me that your father wants you to get back together with your ex-girlfriend."

"Blaise was no friend of mine. And given that I'm here with you, while Astoria is probably back in Wiltshire whinging, you can see how little my father's desires rate with me."

From the mulish look on her pretty face and noncommittal hum she gave in response, Draco could tell Granger was unconvinced. "Are you ever going to introduce me to your parents? Or am I just your dirty little secret, as Blaise said?"

He grabbed her upper arms and gave her a light, attention-grabbing shake. "You really should try to forget every bit of poison that snake poured in your ears. If I thought you were a dirty little secret, would I have brought you out to meet my friends?"

"And your parents?" Granger asked relentlessly, without answering his question. "Will I get to meet them?"

Draco released her to run a hand through his fringe. Her request to be introduced to his parents was not an unreasonable one, just one that was impossible to grant. Unless she was willing to accept half a loaf as better than none . . .

"I won't subject you to my father," he said decisively. "After meeting him, you'd probably run and dump me straightaway. But my mother does come to London every so often for shopping or a show. There's no reason why we can't see her the next time she's in town."

"Really?" Granger asked, surprised he had so readily agreed.

"Really," he confirmed, putting his a arms back around her and pulling her closer.

She rested her head on his chest, but Draco could see she still wore a faint frown.

"You're not upset with me, are you?" he wheedled. "I promise this call won't go past noon, and then I'll take you out to lunch."

"I'm not upset." Granger raised her head to give him a sassy little smile. "I actually would like to see more of Dublin than what's on offer between the sheets in this room, so this is my chance."

She ran her fingers down his bare chest to his stomach and then traced the thin line of blond hair below his navel. "Though speaking of what's on offer between the sheets, do you have to get ready for your call right away? Come back to bed for a bit," she coaxed, brown eyes soft and shining.

Draco smirked at the overture, marveling that the prospect of meeting his formidable mother had put Hermione in _this_ kind of mood.

"Join me in the shower," he suggested instead, feeling optimistic that he could get her to call out his real name again. "We can get each other dirty before we get clean."

(x) (x) (x)

Hermione couldn't help but feeling a bit frustrated as she strolled through Dublin, not giving the gorgeous mix of architecture or well-kept green spaces the attention they deserved.

Last night, she had deliberately tried to recreate the circumstances that had allowed her repressed memories to briefly surface on Halloween: too much alcohol and rough sex while she was restrained. She had goaded Malcolm to fuck her harder, until the safe word was on the tip of her tongue and she felt like she was on the cusp of _something_, but no memories had broken through.

Instead, she found herself screaming his middle name loudly enough as she climaxed that in retrospect, Hermione was shocked no one had called the front desk to complain. Perhaps tequila might work where whiskey had failed, but her stomach roiled at the thought. She had sworn off the devil's water since her miserable morning after Halloween.

Then, there had been an odd moment this morning in the shower. Malcolm had pressed her up against the glass of the shower stall, moving in and out of her body at a leisurely, maddening pace as she shamelessly begged him for more. She had caught sight of his smirking face and damp, slicked-back hair in the fogged-up mirror, and had a sense of that nagging _something_. It wasn't déjà vu, not quite. It had been a boy with hair and a smirk like that, not a man, and certainly she had not been in such an intimate position with the boy. Then Malcolm had stopped his teasing and increased the speed and force of his thrusts and that wisp of memory had been lost in a whirlwind of sensation.

It troubled her, but perhaps now she would find some answers from an old schoolmate.

After a quick shared breakfast before Malcolm left for the hotel's business center to take his call, Hermione had spent the first part of the morning playing tourist. She walked up Grafton Street, ducking away from its shops and restaurants to the relative tranquility of the linked quadrangles of Trinity College. The Old Library was beautiful and spoke to her soul, and she had been one of the first to arrive when it opened, allowing her to view the Book of Kells and other gems of the library's collection without the distraction of a crowd of other tourists.

She tore herself away from the library after a mere hour, though, because it was opening time for Dublin's pubs and she had a particular one she needed to visit. Ever since her encounter with Bridey Finnigan at King's Cross in September, Hermione had wanted to get to the Red Lion, to see if the Seamus she so vaguely recalled could help her.

Initially, she had been inclined to turn down her boyfriend's invitation to go away with him for a weekend. Malcolm occasionally came across to her as a bit tone deaf where their relationship was concerned, treating her like a mistress rather than a girlfriend - like this morning, when there had been a post-shower row when she opened her suitcase to discover all new clothing, in her size and his taste. If Paris had been the only place he offered to whisk her off to, Hermione's answer would have been a firm no. But the opportunity to get to Dublin, and the Red Lion, changed the equation.

There were a few pubs by that name in Dublin, but Hermione was hopeful this was the right one, on a narrow lane in the shadow of medieval Dublin Castle. The pub was housed in a narrow, half-timbered building, marked by a wooden sign with a scarlet and gold lion rearing up on its haunches, with a wand clasped in its paws. She opened the door and walked into the pub, empty of any customers save herself this early in the day.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph," breathed the sandy-haired man behind the bar, staring at her with wide eyes.

"Seamus?" Hermione questioned, knowing even before he gulped and nodded that she was in the right place and speaking with the right person. "I have some questions I was hoping you could answer."

(x) (x) (x)

Seamus Finnigan had never aspired to become an Auror. He knew that his marks - and frankly, his raw magical ability - were average at best. However, he dreamed of becoming a patrol wizard with Magical Law Enforcement - a beat cop, as it were. That dream ended at the Final Battle, when an unknown Death Eater's curse splintered and shriveled his wand arm.

Now he spent his days behind the bar of the pub his mother's family had owned for six generations, pouring pints of Harp and Guinness and listening to the petty woes of Muggle tourists and nodding to the occasional cloaked man or woman who slunk through the pub to the storeroom in the back, which served as a secondary gateway to wizarding Dublin.

He expected this November Saturday to be much like any other autumn weekend: slow in the morning, picking up in the afternoon as football matches came on, and busy into the evening. And then Hermione Granger walked into his pub and an ordinary, grey day was transformed into something special.

If Hermione had happened to walk into the Red Lion as an oblivious, Obliviated tourist - _of __all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine_ - Seamus would have been thrilled just to see her, to confirm with his own two eyes that she was well. But to see her come through the door knowing his name, with her eyes bright with that mixture of inquisitiveness and tenacity he'd seen so many times when she was studying at Hogwarts - a look that meant she was looking for answers and wouldn't rest until she found them - it was like Christmas and Easter and his birthday all rolled into one.

"Hermione! You're looking well, a sight for me sore eyes in truth!" He raced around the bar to give her a crushing hug, lifting her up for a little spin for good measure.

And, truthfully, she was looking well. The hollow-eyed waif he'd seen fighting like a demon at the Battle of Hogwarts and waging political battles at the Ministry and watching her back for rogue Death Eaters in the months after had been replaced by a seemingly content and unexpectedly polished young woman, wearing designer denims cut to make her legs look a mile long and a curve-skimming dark green jumper with a cowl neck. He hadn't seen her in that color before, but thought it suited her better than the ratty red Weasley jumper she had worn when hanging out in the Gryffindor tower.

"Seamus! Put me down!" Hermione commanded in a bossy tone.

"Yes, ma'am," he obeyed immediately, albeit with a cheeky grin. He hadn't missed how she tensed when he grabbed her, and realized to Hermione, he was virtually a stranger. To help put her at ease, Seamus made an exaggerated show of pulling out and wiping down a barstool for her use, earning himself a small smile.

"So, about my questions," Hermione began, elbows propped on the bar.

To buy himself some time, Seamus made his way back to his side of the bar and began pouring a Guinness for each of them. Answering Hermione's questions was a violation of both the Statute of Secrecy and decrees implemented by Umbridge's Muggle-Born Repatriation Commission, and punishable by a hefty fine and term in Azkaban.

He slid one of the pints to Hermione and took a healthy gulp from his own. "Look, it's like this, lass," he began, with an awkward clearing of his throat. "I'd like to help you, but -"

"But you've mislaid your courage somewhere," she finished for him in an acid tone. "Perhaps at the bottom of a bottle?"

"That's hitting below the belt!" he protested. "You don't know the kind of trouble I'd get in with the authorities."

"The Seamus I knew always claimed to have an Irish respect for unjust authority," she challenged him. "That is to say, none at all. When did that change?"

He ran his hand through his hair. "It changed when me Da died. I've got a lot more responsibilities now, Hermione."

"Please, Seamus," she asked beseechingly. "If there's anything you can do, any hint you can give me to help me remember . . ."

He had never been able to resist those big, brown eyes. "Tell you what, lass. How 'bout we catch up over a pint like the old friends we are? You can ask me about people you remember and I'll tell you what I can about what's going in in their lives. Fair enough?"

"That's more than fair, Sea," Hermione beamed at him. Her smile disappeared quickly, like clouds chasing across a sunny sky.

"Harry's dead, isn't he?" she asked.

Seamus nodded solemnly. "He's honored as a hero, not that it does him a damn bit o' good when he's lying in the cold, hard ground at the age of eighteen."

She bit her lip. "Where's he buried? I'd like to go and pay my respects, if I can."

"He's buried in Godric's Hollow, in the West Country, about thirty kilometers west of Yeovil. There's no reason why you can't visit, though I don't know what you'll see," Seamus cautioned.

Hermione made a notation in her pocket diary. She drank a bit of her Guinness, trying to swallow back tears, and made a face.

"A bit too early for a beer, luv? Now that's proof you have no Irish in your family tree," he joked, trying to dispel the suddenly somber mood. Reaching under the bar, he handed her a bottle of Butterbeer. "Try this instead."

"This is really good," she noted after taking a cautious sip. "What is it?"

"A craft beer, of a kind. Rather hard to find, but you'll always be able to drink it on the house at the Red Lion."

Hermione smiled at that, before refocusing on more serious matters. "What about Ginny? How did she cope after Harry died?" She could remember the feel of smooth, flame-colored hair under the palm of her hand, as she tried in vain to comfort a girl whose body was wracked with sobs.

"Not very well, at least at first," Seamus admitted. "If it hadn't been for the baby, I think she would have done away with herself."

"Ginny had a baby?" Hermione asked, wide-eyed, trying to reconcile that bit of information with her memories of a coltish tomboy.

Seamus grinned at her. "Aye, she has three babies now! Little Jamie, who's four, and she just had twin girls last month. She married Dean Thomas about a year ago. D'ya remember him?"

She knit her brows. "He's a West Ham fan, isn't he? And he dated Ginny before she got together with Harry."

Seamus smiled in satisfaction. "He's a good bloke. And you remember a lot more than you ought to, and that's a fine thing, it is."

"There's so much I can't remember, though," Hermione fretted. "What else can you tell me about Ginny and her kids?"

Seamus smiled. "There was a lot of gossip about her remarrying - a bunch of hags with nothing better to do had something to say about it. But you don't want to mess with a Weasley woman when she's in a temper."

"I hope Dean makes her happy. She deserves it, and Harry would have wanted that for her." Hermione smiled at him as she made another note.

Reading it upside-down, Seamus felt a pang as he realized she had forgotten the Weasley name, even though they had practically been her foster family in the wizarding world. "Little Jamie's the spitting image of Harry, except he has brown eyes, like Ginny," he offered.

"I bet he hates hearing that, or he will," Hermione surmised. "Harry always did."

"Aye, the lad has some big footstep to follow," Seamus agreed. "And Ginny and Dean named their twins Minerva Lily and Mione Luna."

"After me?" Hermione asked, eyes shining.

"Of course! You and Ginny were like sisters."

"I can barely remember her," Hermione said sadly. "Just impressions."

Seamus regarded her with sympathy, cudgeling his brain for other tidbits of non-magical gossip he could offer. "You stood as godmother to Jamie, before . . . before you left."

Hermione immediately looked conscience-stricken. "I'm a godmother? But I've never done anything for his birthdays, or Christmas, or anything!"

Seamus hastened to reassure her. "It's alright, 'Mione. Harry and Ginny realized you wouldn't remember, but they wanted Jamie to grow up knowing about you."

She was only listening with half an ear, busy as she was rooting in her bag. "I am a _horrible_ godmother. If I give you a cheque, can you see that Ginny gets it, to buy Jamie a really nice present from me? I can't go and visit her myself, can I?"

He shook his head. "You may be seeing her around, though."

"I'd like that," Hermione said distractedly, as she pulled out a wad of pound notes from her purse. "Oh, I am going to _kill_ him for this."

That made Seamus raise a sandy eyebrow. "That's not the reaction I'd expect when finding a few hundred quid."

Hermione smiled tightly. "My boyfriend and I have had a few discussions about his over-generous impulses, but he never seems to learn." Despite her exasperation, she peeled off four hundred-pound notes. "Here, please buy Jamie a spectacular present, and get something for the twins as well. I can pay him back," she added, half to herself.

He placed the money in an envelope, writing "HG to JP and twins" on the outside. "Is there anything in particular you'd like me to get?"

"Books," Hermione grinned at him. "And maybe some stuffed animals - an otter? Or maybe a lion? And receiving blankets for the girls, and a broomstick for Jamie, and - "

Seamus interrupted her stream of consciousness. "Did you say a broomstick?" he repeated, incredulous.

She caught herself up short. "I don't know why I said that. A broomstick is a ludicrous present for a little boy."

Seamus added it to his list on the outside of the envelope regardless. "Ah, well. Kids like the funniest things." Inwardly, he was amazed - both at the patchy job the Ferret had done when Obliviating her and at the idea of Hermione Granger approving a flying-related gift.

"And how is Luna?" she inquired.

"Very well," he said. "The last I heard, she was looking for rare birds and beasties in the Amazon."

Her mobile rang and she answered. "Hullo?"

Seamus picked up his rag and resumed wiping down the bar to give her some privacy. From the male voice on the other end of the line, he assumed it was her boyfriend.

"Yes, at the Red Lion," she repeated. "Do you need the address? See you in a few, then." As she rang off, Seamus was happy to see the unconscious smile on her face. And he was very curious to meet the man who made her glow like that.

After another swallow of Butterbeer, Hermione cocked her head to one side, clearly thinking about something. Seamus braced himself to respond to an awkward question about Ron.

Instead, she tapped her pen thoughtfully. "Speaking of old friends and acquaintances, I recently met a woman named Cho Chang with whom I seem to have some things in common. Do you know her?"

For the second time that day, Seamus was sure his eyes were big as saucers. "I surely do."

"She and I are going to be working together, doing some research on memory loss. Perhaps you can suggest a few names of people we might want to approach as subjects?"

Thinking fast, Seamus gave her the Gryffindor and D.A. names, thinking they would be the most useful. "You'll want to speak with Dennis Creevey. He's a student at Leeds College of Art. And a woman named Katie Bell, who lives in London."

Hermione looked up from her notebook. "I've met Katie, too."

"Then you're on the right track," Seamus encouraged cryptically. He sought another topic that wouldn't get him thrown into Azkaban.

"So, tell me about this boyfriend of yours. Is he a nice bloke?"

"I don't know if I'd describe Malcolm as nice," she said slowly, "but he's very good to me." She smiled. "He even proofreads my essays!"

Seamus's answering grin was a weak one. Her response made him uneasy for a reason he couldn't pinpoint.

"His last name isn't Baddock, is it?" he asked. "That's someone else we were at school with. Pimply git."

"No, his last name is Foy."

"Malcolm Foy," Seamus muttered, half to himself, trying to figure out why the name sounded so familiar. And he realized why - too late - as the tall blond man entered the pub. "_Malfoy_."

The man didn't appear to have heard him. He ignored Seamus, taking the stool next to Hermione and giving her a kiss on the lips that lingered just long enough to stake his claim on the witch, but not so long as to upset Hermione with an embarrassing public display of affection.

"How was your call?" Hermione asked.

"Tedious, but ultimately profitable. Or so I hope," the blond drawled.

"Did you have a pleasant morning without me?" he continued, low-voiced, in a teasing, affectionate tone.

Seamus felt a glimmer of doubt. That simply wasn't the way Malfoy spoke to Granger - or to anyone, based on what he had seen at Hogwarts.

"I had quite a lovely morning catching up with an old school friend," she answered lightly. "This is Seamus Finnigan."

"Pleasure to meet you. I'm Malcolm Foy." The smile on the blond's lips didn't reach his eyes, but his tone was civil enough.

"Seamus Finnigan," he acknowledged, briefly shaking the proffered hand. He had a sudden, wild thought that Malfoy might have been Obliviated as well.

"You know," he said, trying to draw the blond out, "it's uncanny how much you resemble a boy we were at school with."

"So Hermione has told me," Foy acknowledged, idly twisting one of her curls around his finger. "I must have an evil twin."

Seamus grunted. Even if the bloke wasn't Malfoy, his territorial behavior towards Hermione was grating on him - even if she didn't seem to mind. He didn't like the way the blond had moved his stool closer, so their legs were touching, or the possessive little touches to her knee or shoulder. Even if Hermione's birthday was several months before his, Seamus had always thought of her as another little sister and didn't like seeing this blond bastard mauling her in his pub.

"Ready to go, love?" Hermione's boyfriend asked. "I made reservations for us at a seafood restaurant up in Howth, so it's a bit of a hike."

"Ready," she agreed, with a warm smile she then turned on Seamus. "Don't be a stranger the next time you're in London, Sea. It was great seeing you!"

"Likewise," he told her, not at all happy about the sly look in the blond's eye or the placement of his hand on the small of her back. He had no basis to bring in the Aurors, but as soon as they left, he would be contacting the Order so that they could determine if Hermione was dating Malfoy and stage an intervention if that were the case.

(x) (x) (x)

Draco walked out of the Red Lion, arms linked with Hermione as they began retracing their path through the warren of medieval streets surrounding Dublin Castle back to the bustle of Grafton Street. All in all, he thought he had bluffed it out rather well with Finnigan, well enough at least to avoid a wizards' duel in front of his girlfriend.

As they walked along, he was scanning the shops that lined the street until he found what he was seeking.

"Oh, bugger!" he exclaimed, with a well-calibrated mix of surprise and exasperation. "I left my wallet on the bar! Do you want to browse in that bookstore over there while I run back to fetch it? I'll just be a few minutes."

The bookstore looked enticing enough that Hermione acquiesced, requesting only that he not say or do anything to Seamus that she would not. She had evidently picked up on the subtle hostility between the two men.

Draco readily agreed, because Hermione's past ruthlessness essentially still gave him a free hand to deal with Finnigan as he saw fit. Left to his own devices, Draco couldn't think of any lines he wouldn't cross in order to keep his Muggleborn witch without the interference of the Ministry or the buggering Order of the Phoenix.

As soon as his long-legged strides took him around a corner and out of her sight, Draco ducked into an alley and Apparated to the back entrance of the Red Lion. The Irishman was cagily watching the front door while tapping on something in his palm, but he had not expected a Disillusioned Malfoy to sneak through the service entrance. He didn't even have time to draw his own wand before a jet of green light from Draco's wand hit the him squarely in the forehead. Finnigan slumped over the bar, unmoving.

Draco approached cautiously, mindful of the possibility that someone could walk into the pub at any minute. He saw a glimpse of gold clasped in Finnigan's hand and used his wand tip to dislodge the Galleon and push it onto the bar for a closer look. Instead of the usual serial numbers, a cryptic message ran around the edge. "HG at Red L with DM. Come no-"

Draco sighed in relief, that the message was incomplete and had not yet been sent. With a tap of his wand and a "_finite_," the letters were erased and replaced by ordinary-looking numbers.

He hefted the Galleon in his hand and flipped it, watching it catch the light as it spun in the air, smiling ironically. He had found out about the coins used by members of Dumbledore's Army at the end of his fifth year at Hogwarts, just before the Inquisitorial Squad disbanded. Against his will, he had been impressed that Granger had successfully pulled off something as advanced as a Protean Charm, and the knowledge that she had done it had goaded him throughout the summer to create his own set of Protean coins for use with Madam Rosmerta. Then, as now, he thought that the extremist view that Mudbloods were lesser in terms of magical power and ability was utter bollocks, at least so far as Granger was concerned.

Draco caught the Galleon with ease and placed it in Finnigan's pocket, alongside his wand, to prevent any Muggles from seeing the magical coin. He then walked out of the pub without a backward glance. It just wouldn't do to keep Hermione waiting.

**A/N: the "gin joint" quote is from Casablanca. The seafood restaurant in Howth, King Sitric's, really does exist and is excellent**.


	18. Chapter 18: Ladies who Lunch

**A/N: Since we've just wrapped up Thanksgiving weekend here in the U.S., let me give thanks for consistently positive and perceptive reviewers (including shealone, Lady Gothitelle, janethejhon, surugasasa, Guest, Jesspanda, Guest, Calimocho, EmilyWoods, tooyaluvr, dragonwingedangel, kaoru104, dutch** **potterfan, APieceOfPie4Everybody011, v-x-y-zz, Aphrodite-Venus-u.k, deator11, Colubrina, latefebruary, MrsRast (hope those pies got baked eventually!), Guest, ordinary vamp, ladymagna1100, Guest, Matt, alyssualiu, Etoile Black, latina-pr, qiana, Grovek26, Guest, anona, ashash52009, Claradeana, eliza6801, BelleBelles) and for this story now exceeding 300 reviews! **

**_November 30, 2003_**

Cho joined Hermione at the table where she was seated, smack in the middle of the bustling cafe. "Is this really the best you could find for a confidential conversation?" she inquired in a cool tone.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Nice to see you, too, Cho. How is Theo? Did you enjoy your honeymoon?"

Cho's mouth thinned at the sarcasm, but Hermione wasn't through. "Now that we've exchanged pleasantries, let me explain why this is an excellent spot for a sensitive discussion. No one can hear us over the din and we can see anyone who might be paying too much attention to us. Were you able to get Katie to come?"

Hermione had spoken with Cho by phone a couple of times after returning from Dublin, sharing the two names she learned at the Red Lion. After Malcolm had asked Hermione one too many casual, subtle questions about her conversation with Seamus, the women had agreed that Hermione would find out more about Dennis Creevey, while Cho would invite Katie to meet them for lunch.

"Of course I was able to get Katie to come," Cho said, affronted that Hermione would question her ability to perform such a simple task.

"Did Theo give you any trouble over getting her phone number?"

Cho shook her head, causing her straight black hair to swing. "Not at all. He called Mark and got it for me right away. Though Theo did want to know if you were coming to lunch as well."

"What did you tell him?" Hermione asked uneasily. She did not like deceiving her boyfriend - indeed, she wasn't certain she _could_ deceive him - but her instincts told her it would be a mistake to be too forthcoming about the research she and Cho were engaged in.

"I told him that I thought you were a know-it-all bitch. And then we moved on to another topic. Honesty is the best policy, don't you agree?" Cho replied with a sweet smile.

Hermione rolled her eyes. While she had returned from her mini-break in Dublin in an excellent, relaxed mood, Cho had been even more prickly than usual since her honeymoon. Still, she and Cho were not friends, and she wasn't about to risk having her head bitten off by asking about any troubles in her ally's relationship with her husband.

Katie walked in, stripping off her red woolen gloves and looking around the restaurant, waving cheerily as soon as she caught sight of them. "Hey, Cho! Hi, Hermione. I didn't know you were coming, too!"

She plopped into one of the vacant chairs, absently rubbing her stomach. "I swear, this baby _never_ stops kicking me!"

"I hope it wasn't too much trouble to come to lunch," Hermione said.

"Not at all! It's nice to be able to schedule some girl time."

It was easy to draw Katie out over soup and salads, with seemingly idle chitchat about the men in their lives.

"Oh, I've known Mark for almost fifteen years now," she told them. "We grew up in neighboring villages that have that this ridiculous rivalry. We're the football version of Romeo and Juliet, with a happier ending! I played against him in a co-ed league at home, and then we became teammates after I moved to London for uni."

"So you remember growing up with Mark?" Hermione asked.

"Of course I do," Katie gave her an odd look.

"What Hermione means," Cho said smoothly, "is that it's nice you have memories of him as a boy as well as a man."

"Yes, it's cute you two grew up together," Hermione added, grudgingly grateful to Cho for the save. So far, Katie's answers to their leading questions were not what Hermione had expected. There was no indication the other woman suffered from amnesia.

Katie laughed. "Now I see what you mean! I don't quite remember Mark in nappies, because I was eleven when we first met and he's a few years older, but it is fun to be able to tease him about what he was like as a teenager. _Not_ that he's matured all that much!"

"It's rare to meet childhood sweethearts these days, with how people move around," Cho observed.

"Oh, we were nothing but opponents back at home," Katie said with a grin. "And when we reconnected in London, I'd say we initially were shag buddies more than anything else, but Isabelle was a game-changer."

"She was a bit of a surprise?" Hermione asked.

"More than a bit, when I had just turned twenty-one and was still at school!" Katie agreed. "But a very, very welcome surprise by the time she arrived. I joke her middle name should have been 'Oopsie,' but Mark got to pick her middle name." From the way she crinkled her nose, she was less than approving of his choice.

"What is her middle name?" inquired Cho.

"Lucretia, after Mark's mum. A horrible name for a horrible woman."

"She's the stereotypical mum-in-law, then?" Hermione queried.

"Worse than most, I'm afraid," Katie said. "I can tell she thinks I'm not nearly good enough for her precious little boy, and she's convinced I fell pregnant with Isabelle on purpose. Nothing Mark says will convince her otherwise."

"She sounds like a horror," Cho said sympathetically.

"Lucretia has been better recently," Katie said, striving to be fair. "And Mark's dad is taking much more of an interest in Isabelle now that she's four. Mark actually has her over at their house this afternoon, so I really shouldn't complain."

"Sorry that I've been rattling on," she apologized. "What's new with the two of you?"

"Not so much," Hermione replied, deciding to take the proverbial bull by the horns. "Cho and I are working together on an interdisciplinary study, relating to long-term memory loss due to physical trauma. We're in the process of recruiting subjects now, but it's slow going."

Cho chimed in, sourly confirming Hermione's assessment. "I have access to NHS data, but it's close to useless. It doesn't differentiate by cause, so we're having to manually sift out tens of thousands of cases where the memory loss is to due to Alzheimer's and other diseases. And even when we try to limit the data by imposing an age cut-off of under thirty, we're finding a vast number of cases where the amnesia is due to substance abuse."

"That sounds frustrating," Katie commiserated. "Would you like me to put you in touch with my colleague, Justin Finch-Fletchley? You both met him on Halloween. He keeps it pretty quiet, but he lost most of his memories of his teenage years after an auto accident."

The other two women both nodded, and Katie pulled out her mobile to find Justin's number. "I'll let him know you'll be calling," she offered, brushing aside their thanks. "No, really, it's no trouble and may help Justin."

"Oh, drat!" she exclaimed, looking at the time shown on her phone. "I hate to eat and run, but Mark booked a prenatal massage for me this afternoon and of course forgot I was meeting you for lunch." Katie shook her head as she counted out notes and coins to pay for her share. "He manages to be thoughtful and thoughtless at the same time!"

"Malcolm can be like that as well," Hermione grinned at the other woman's tone of fond exasperation. Cho smiled thinly, but said nothing.

Katie smiled back at them. "This was fun - we should try to get together again. I'll check with Mark, and if we can make it work with everybody's schedules, I would love to have you and the boys over for dinner before the holidays and this one's arrival," she said, with a punctuating pat to her abdomen.

"Of course," Cho assented.

"That would be lovely," Hermione echoed.

With a jaunty farewell wave, Katie pulled on her coat and gloves and left them.

Cho waited until she had exited the cafe before shaking her head. "She's not like us. Your bartender friend must have made a mistake."

Reluctantly, Hermione agreed. "She's far too happy and well-adjusted. Perhaps Seamus gave me her name so she could put us in touch with Justin?" She took out her notebook to add Justin's name to a small but growing list of contacts.

"Perhaps. It did sound like a promising lead. I'll reach out to him," Cho volunteered.

Hermione nodded, making to close her notebook.

Cho made a hesitant sound, causing Hermione to look up at her. "There's another name I'd like you to add to the informational category, though it may sound barmy. Theodore Nott, spelled with an 'N.'"

"Your husband?" Hermione asked, striving for an even tone even though Cho's request _did_ seem barmy.

"No, his name is spelled with a silent 'K,'" Cho clarified. After a moment of silence, she opted to give Hermione an explanation. "While Theo and I were on our honeymoon, I had a brief episode where I was convinced he was someone else, a quiet boy I knew slightly at school whose surname had that slightly different spelling."

"What happened? Did you do anything to Theo?" Hermione asked.

"No, just asked what he was doing and then I passed out. Why would I have done anything to him?" Cho was puzzled.

"I had something similar happen with Malcolm on Halloween and I reacted rather violently," Hermione said.

"I see. Who did you think he was? We can add that name to the list."

Hermione shook her head in annoyance. "I can't remember his name. Just the bane of my existence, merrily shagging me into the mattress and then having the nerve to ask if everything was fine."

"That's awful," Cho shuddered.

"How are you doing with contacting this Creevey person?" she asked after a pause, in a brisk tone. Hermione appreciated her tact in switching subjects.

"Fairly well." Through her on-line research, Hermione had already confirmed that Dennis was a photography student in his final year of school and had even obtained his e-mail address. She was doubtful, however, that e-mail would be an effective approach to someone who didn't know her - or at least didn't remember knowing her - and who was studying in Leeds, two hundred kilometers away. "His photos are part of a student show in London in February," she offered. "I thought we could go to the opening night of the exhibit and introduce ourselves."

Cho's lips thinned. "Can't you come up with a way to meet him earlier? That's more than two months off."

"Not unless you're willing to take a trip to Yorkshire," Hermione told her.

With that, the other woman backed down. "No, I don't have the time and I would prefer never to return that region, for reasons I've already shared."

"Understood," Hermione said. She looked back at her closed notebook and bit her lip, before reaching a decision. As much as she wanted to make the pilgrimage to Godric's Hollow on her own, she also felt that Cho had the right to join her.

"Seamus also told me where a friend of mine is buried. I'm planning to visit his gravesite, if you'd like to come. His name was Harry Potter, and I feel like he was pivotal to everything that happened."

"Harry Potter?" Cho said slowly, her inflection unsure. Then she repeated the name, with more certainty. "Yes. Yes, I'll come with you."

(x) (x) (x)

Isabelle Stone kicked her feet back and forth under the polished wood of the table, lightly enough that Grandmother wouldn't notice. Daddy had promised she could spend all afternoon flying on her broomstick, and Grandfather had promised her a visit to the stables, so long as she behaved at lunch.

Besides Grandmother, sitting at the head of the table with her iron-grey hair pulled back into an elaborate arrangement with loops and whorls, there were three other ladies who Isabelle had just met today. Mrs. Malfoy, who Grandmother called Cissy, was elegant and blond, with sparkly blue eyes. When Isabelle shyly told the blond lady that she smelled pretty, like flowers, Mrs. Malfoy had patted her cheek with a cool hand and praised her to Grandmother as "a charming little girl."

The other two ladies, Miss Daphne and Miss Tori, were younger and Grandmother said they were sisters. With their too-long faces and identical shiny, straight, shoulder-length hair, Isabelle thought they looked a little like horses, but kept that observation to herself so she could see real horses later, with Grandfather and Daddy.

Miss Daphne had blond hair, darker than Mrs. Malfoy's, and greenish-blue eyes, while Miss Tori's hair and eyes were brown, like Isabelle's own. Miss Tori had been very excited about that.

"You're so pretty! You look like you could be _my_ daughter," she cooed at Isabelle.

"Any child you had with my son would have blond hair, Astoria," Mrs. Malfoy reminded her daughter-in-law in a chilly voice. "She is a pretty child, though," she added with approval. "That color is quite flattering to her, Lucretia."

Grandmother inclined her head graciously. "How kind of you to notice, Cissy. After raising a son, it's a delight to have a little girl to dress up."

Isabelle looked down and scowled at the dark pink silk. Grandmother had made her change out of her favorite denims as soon as she arrived.

"Pity she can't inherit," Miss Daphne observed, sounding smug rather than sorry. "The Greengrass family is one of the few that allows property to pass in the female line."

"Oh, the estate is entailed and will go to her brother, but we have enough in the way of dower properties to make Isabelle quite the little heiress," Grandmother said complacently. Isabelle did not know what an heiress was, but hoped it was like being a princess.

"She has a brother?" Mrs. Malfoy asked, her voice intent.

"Putative," Grandmother replied. "The baby is due in January and, at least according to Muggle tests, is indisputably male."

"How delightful for you!" Mrs. Malfoy congratulated Grandmother, who smiled broadly.

The blond woman turned to Isabelle. "Are you excited to have a little brother, dearest?"

Her question caught Isabelle mid-bite, with a mouthful of chicken, but she remembered to chew and swallow like Mummy and Grandmother had taught her before answering. "I'd rather have a pony."

The women trilled with laughter.

"Oh, I want a little girl just like that!" Miss Tori said in a longing tone.

"She's rather precious," her sister concurred. "I haven't spoken to Marcus in years. I think I shall have to make a point of looking him up."

"I'll have to do the same," Miss Tori said, "to tell him how adorable his daughter is!" she added hastily, with a quick look at Mrs. Malfoy, who was glaring at her.

Her icy blue eyes warmed as she looked at Isabelle. "Her manners are quite nice, surprisingly so considering the disadvantages of her upbringing," she complimented.

"Indeed, Cissy, her mother is not as much of a savage as I first feared. The time she spent among us while at Hogwarts seems to have allowed her to acquire a basic grasp of etiquette, though the finer points of course elude her."

Isabelle frowned down at her plate at the not-so-nice things Grandmother was saying about Mummy. Of course, Mummy also sometimes said mean things about Grandmother, calling her a witch, and Daddy only laughed and hugged her and told her she was "too right."

Mrs. Malfoy nodded in understanding. "So much of that needs to be inculcated at a very young age. I trust you are doing so with Isabelle? Deportment lessons and the like?"

"To the extent I can, Cissy, especially now that she's shown her magic. But there is only so much I can do when she resides in the Muggle world. _And _when Marcus and Brutus would allow her to spend hours flying about on her broomstick," Grandmother said, throwing up her hands. "Which is something I wished to speak with you about."

"Which, deportment lessons for Isabelle, or the inexplicable male obsession with Quidditch?" Mrs. Malfoy raised a carefully plucked blond eyebrow and smirked at Grandmother.

"Neither, Cissy," Grandmother said in an impatient tone. "There is a proposal before Undersecretary Umbridge that would allow Isabelle to be raised in our world. Your support, and your husband's, would certainly be influential."

Narcissa smiled cynically. "Yes, the Undersecretary certainly holds Lucius in high esteem. But I was not aware of any legal impediment to Marcus bringing Isabelle to the wizarding world?"

"There is no legal impediment with respect to Isabelle, but Marcus refuses to leave Katie. When a man grows up, he leaves his parents and cleaves unto his wife, or near as," Grandmother said sourly. "This measure would give those who have undertaken Vows greater latitude as to how they uphold them. In Marcus's case, it would be by living with his children and his Muggleborn _maîtresse_ in our world, instead of the Muggle one."

Mrs. Malfoy pursed her lips. "You've given me a great deal to think about, Lucretia. Perhaps we can resume this discussion later, after pudding? Little pitchers do have big ears," she added, with a meaningful look in Isabelle's direction.

Grandmother snapped her fingers and a bat-eared elf appeared, bearing a lavishly frosted chocolate cake. Suddenly, Isabelle's eyes were a match for her ears, widening at the glorious sight. She loved visits to her grandparents' house.

(x) (x) (x)

Ginny Thomas was having lunch at the Leaky with her favorite sister-in-law before embarking on an afternoon of shopping in Diagon Alley.

"It's the oddest thing," she told Angelina, between bites of bangers and mash. "Seamus Owled me yesterday, to send along an envelope of Muggle money he found tucked behind the bar with a note saying it was for Jamie and the babies. 'From HG,' is what's written on the envelope."

"From Hermione?" Angelina asked, eyes wide.

"I can't think of who else it would be," Ginny stated. "But Seamus didn't see her and he has no idea how long the envelope's been lying there. He thinks it's from a couple of Saturdays ago, when he had a dizzy spell at lunch and got a friend to tend the bar for him for the rest of the day."

"A dizzy spell?" Angelina scoffed. "Sounds more like a hangover to me. Seamus drinks too much."

"True," Ginny agreed, "but who can blame him? Still, it's a pity he missed her."

"Especially if she's starting to remember and is trying to reach out to us," Angelina agreed.

"Here, take a look at this," Ginny directed, holding out an envelope for the other witch to inspect.

By the time she finished reading, Angelina was grinning broadly. "Books listed first? That's definitely Hermione! And her Patronus was an otter, wasn't it?"

Ginny nodded excitedly. "And she wants to get Jamie a broomstick, just like Sirius did for Harry. That's not a Muggle toy."

"That's brilliant!" Angelina enthused. "Keep that for the next Order meeting."

"Of course!" Ginny agreed, then paused. "Do you think I should hang onto the money as well, after the way Dung was told off for losing Hermione's Knut?"

Angelina looked thoughtful. "It's just pound notes, right? May I see them?"

"They're still in the envelope," Ginny passed it back to her sister-in-law.

Angelina extracted the money and whistled. "Blimey, Ginny! She gave you about eighty Galleons."

The redhead's jaw dropped. "I didn't realize it was that much! That means I can get Jamie the Firebolt Mini he wants."

Angelina looked vaguely concerned. "How can Hermione afford that? She's still in school, isn't she? That's a lot of money for a graduate student to shell out."

"Dunno," Ginny shrugged. "Her parents were both dentists, so probably her family has money. Or maybe," she joked, "Hermione's found herself a rich boyfriend."

**A/N: So now you know - the green light was an Obliviate rather than the Killing Curse. Draco actually did listen to Hermione when she asked him not to do anything she wouldn't do. So Seamus is alive and well but unable to recall Hermione's visit, despite the physical proof of the envelope. FYI, I usually try to respond to all questions/comments via PM, but probably won't for last chapter's questions about Seamus's fate. Thanks again!**


	19. Chapter 19: Not that Serious

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who is reading, following and especially reviewing! Grovek26, Gunnhilde, Rose Davis, Calimocho, EmilyWoods, Gingercat 55 (about a dozen chapters to come, maybe more), Aphrodite-Venus-uk, Claradeana, surugasasa, latina-pr, SephyBurden, Etoile Black, dragonwingedangel, dutch potterfan, Colubrina, Charm Quest, Matts Miss, BelleBelles, Guest, Dawnaven, Matt (Lucretia is indeed a nightmare!), and Pula Nuvem: I really appreciate it that you took the time to comment and share your take on the story. **

**_December 12, 2003_**

After mailing the applications to her chosen handful of doctoral programs, Hermione felt like skipping down the street as she exited the post office at Russell Square into the wintry afternoon sunshine. None of the applications were due earlier than January, but she had been determined to get everything in by mid-December, so she could enjoy her holiday in Australia with her godparents without any deadlines looming over her head.

Malcolm had been a huge help. Even though he had been markedly more enthused about her applications to Oxford and Cambridge than more far-flung programs, he still had meticulously proofread all of them, offered thoughtful comments on her essays, calmed her typical end of term stress, and put up with the sharp edge of her tongue with a saint-like patience, even though he was far from being a saint. With a tiny smirk, Hermione decided that green and black lingerie and a brief interlude on her knees would properly express her gratitude for his assistance. The satisfaction she would derive from making her generally composed boyfriend unravel was merely a bonus.

A flash of bright color across the street, at one of paths leading into the center of the square, caught Hermione's eye. A red-haired woman pushing a double pram was waving in her direction. Hesitantly, Hermione raised her gloved hand and waved back. A broad smile, visible from across the street, crossed the redhead's face as she beckoned to Hermione and very slowly began to walk towards the drained fountain in the center of the square.

Hermione crossed at the signal and fell into step next the woman. "Are you Ginny?" she asked.

"You don't remember me?" the other woman responded, sounding disappointed.

"Honestly, not really," Hermione told her. "But Seamus told me you just had twins and that I might be seeing you soon."

The other woman was looking at her, evidently surprised. "You saw Seamus?"

"I saw him a couple of weekends back at his pub, when I was in Dublin with my boyfriend. Did Sea get you the money I gave him for the kiddies' presents?" Hermione asked anxiously. Malcolm hadn't exactly been upset at the disposition of his money, saying it was hers to spend as she saw fit, but he had made a snide comment or two about Seamus diverting the funds to whiskey.

"Of course he did," Ginny said. "All four hundred pounds of it. You know Seamus is as honest as the day is long. And thank you _so_ much! Jamie loves the new toys."

Hermione waved away the other woman's thanks as she peered into the pram, admiring the sleeping babies with their cafe au lait skin and reddish hair peeking out from under their knitted hats. "They're beautiful, Ginny. Are they identical?"

"No, fraternal," she answered. "The one with the curlier hair is Mione."

"I still can't get over the fact that there's a little person named after me," Hermione smiled at the snoozing infant.

"I wish you weren't so surprised. If Harry and I had a little girl instead of Jamie, that's what we would have named her. You were like a sister to both of us," Ginny said warmly.

"If I am like a sister to you, why haven't I seen you in more than four years?" Hermione demanded, suddenly torn between anger and hurt. "I barely can remember you, I don't recall where you live or know how to find you, but what's your excuse?"

Ginny recoiled as though she had been slapped. Her answer was halting, something that Hermione was certain was unusual for the confident redhead. "After your . . . accident, it took us a while to find you. I _wanted _to be the one to see you right away, but we decided there was too much at risk with Jamie. Even now, just running into you 'coincidentally' like this might get me in a heap of trouble, but . . . I'm sorry. There's so much I can't tell you, but I can say that at least." Ginny shrugged helplessly. Even as they circled the fountain at the center of the square, she was scanning the crowd with watchful eyes.

Ginny's response raised so many questions that Hermione didn't know which one to ask first. "Who is the 'us' you referred to?"

"I'm sorry, I can't tell you," Ginny apologized again. "But you were one of us, and we hope you will be again."

"If there's an 'us,' there must be a 'them,'" Hermione declared. "Can you at least tell me if I'm in any danger?"

"You shouldn't be anymore," Ginny said, distracted. "Oh, look!" she exclaimed, picking up a coin from the ground. "What's that saying again? 'Find a penny, pick it up, all day long you'll have good luck?'"

"I'd prefer answers to luck, Ginny," Hermione told her.

"Hmmm, it's not a pence piece after all. Have you seen one of these before?" the redhead asked, ignoring Hermione's question and holding out the coin for inspection.

"Yes," Hermione said impatiently. "I found one under my couch cushions weeks ago. What of it?"

"Oh," Ginny said, sounding disappointed. "Well, a Knut is a way you can recognize one of us," Ginny replied.

"A nut? Like a cashew?"

"K-N-U-T," Ginny spelled out. "The 'k' is silent."

That jogged Hermione's memory regarding Cho's odd request to add a name to their list. "Do you know a Theodore Nott?" she asked, hopeful that Ginny, like Seamus, would be willing to play the "name game."

Ginny's mouth tightened. "He's someone to be wary of. How do you know him?"

"He's married to a woman I'm working with," Hermione explained. "You may know her, too. Cho Chang?"

"Oh, yes," Ginny confirmed. "I don't like her, but you can trust her. Unlike her snake of a husband."

"Seamus gave me another name - Katie Bell. How is she involved?"

"She's in the same boat as you, having lost her memories," came the surprising answer, given what Katie had told her and Cho over lunch. "Was anyone else in the pub when you spoke with Sea?"

"Nobody," Hermione shook her head. "Did anything happen to him? You sound worried."

"He's fine, but he doesn't remember seeing you," Ginny anxiously scanned the pedestrians on the sidewalk as the neared the square's perimeter. "Look, Hermione, I need to go. I've been here too long as it is."

"Wait, before you go - " Hermione had so many more questions to ask, about the Mudblood scar on her arm, the snake and skull tattoo, Seamus's sudden amnesia, and so many other pieces of an intricate puzzle that refused to fit together.

"I can't," Ginny shook her head. "Here, take this," she thrust a small wrapped package into Hermione's hands. "If you ever really need me, look at it and call my name. Happy early Christmas!" she called over her shoulder, walking away and pushing the pram at a pace that approached a jog.

Instead of giving into the temptation to chase after her, Hermione unwrapped the little parcel, revealing a tiny, mirrored compact. She crinkled her brows in puzzlement. "Why on earth would Ginny give me bright green eyeshadow?"

(x) (x) (x)

Draco sprang up as the doorbell rang. "I'll get it," he offered, seeing as Katie was busy in the kitchen, Marcus was upstairs attempting to persuade Isabelle to sleep, and Theo and Cho were comfortably ensconced on a love seat.

"Eager much?" Nott chuckled at him.

"Not so much," Draco denied, falsely. "Just getting a bit worried that Hermione got lost coming from the station. The directions are a bit tricky."

Theo shook his head. "You've got it bad, mate. She's a very capable, intelligent woman, and this is a safe enough neighborhood to get lost in."

Draco ignored him in favor of opening the front door to Flint's house, revealing Hermione standing on the stoop, holding a pastry box.

"Hey," he said, bestowing a kiss on his curly-haired witch and reaching forward to relieve her of that light burden. "What did you bring me?"

"Hey yourself, greedy," she laughed up at him. "It's cannoli for everyone. You said Katie was making pasta, right?"

"Spaghetti bol," he confirmed, taking her coat.

"Mmmm, smells divine," Hermione commented, walking back towards the kitchen with her boyfriend in tow after exchanging brief greetings with Theo and Cho. "Hi, Katie. Is there anything we can do to help?"

As he placed the pastry box on the countertop, Draco bit back a smile at the bossy way in which his girlfriend had volunteered him for menial labor. "What, you expect me to sully my lily-white hands, Granger?" he snarked.

Both women rolled their eyes at him, and Hermione nudged him with her hip for good measure. He retaliated by snaking an arm around her slender waist and tickling her until she squealed.

"You two," Katie shook her head. "Get a room. Or will a closet do?" she added with a snicker.

Draco laughed as Hermione blushed beet-red. "Oh, my God! Please tell me no one else noticed."

Katie took pity on her. "I was the only one who was cold sober on Halloween. And I have to confess Mark and I have been in compromising positions in places much more public than a supply closet!"

"Do tell," Draco invited, smirking.

Katie pointed her ladle at him in a mock-threatening manner. "If Mark hasn't already spilled the beans, I certainly shan't. Now, make yourself useful and see if you can't help him put Isabelle to bed."

"Yes, madam." With a mocking salute, he sauntered from the kitchen, unconcerned about leaving the two women alone for a gossip. From what Flint had told him, Granger had done such a good job Obliviating Bell and implanting Muggle memories that Katie didn't even realize her Hogwarts-era memories had been lost.

(x) (x) (x)

"So, how can I help?" Hermione offered again, as her boyfriend left for upstairs. "You're eight months pregnant - please, sit down and put your feet up."

"Don't worry, I get enough coddling from Mark!" Katie said, smiling as she looked around the kitchen for something Hermione could do. "Would you mind slicing the bread?"

"Not at all." Hermione crossed to the countertop, where an empty breadbasket sat next to a large garden salad, and began cutting the seeded Italian loaf.

"Have you and Cho gotten together with Justin yet?" Katie asked.

"Not yet, though I think we've found a date that works for us before the holidays," Hermione replied. "Would you like to join us?"

"Let me know when and where, and I'll be there if I can," Katie promised from her place at the stovetop, giving the sauce a stir. "Still, I know how hard it is to juggle three schedules, let alone four, and Justin is quite the social butterfly!"

"Would you like me to set the table?" Hermione asked, her task complete.

Katie shook her head. "Mark already took care of it in the dining room. I don't suppose you could fetch the pasta bowl from above the frig?" she asked the shorter woman doubtfully.

"With a chair I can!" Hermione grinned, pulling one over from the kitchen table and clambering up. "Which one is it?"

"White with red and green vegetables around the rim," Katie clarified.

Hermione passed the large, shallow bowl to the other woman and climbed down.

"Thanks!" Katie said gratefully. "I could have grabbed it myself, but Mark would have a stroke if he saw me up on chair like this!" Fondly, she patted her pregnant belly.

"I suppose it must affect your balance," Hermione agreed. She couldn't even imagine her body changing like that. "Have you fallen before, to make him so concerned?" With Ginny's statement about Katie's memory loss fresh in her mind, she figured it was a good line of inquiry.

"Mark is always overly protective - that's just how he is - but pregnancy makes him worse. I haven't had any issues with this one, but I wound up in the hospital with a concussion when I was expecting Isabelle."

"Oh, my! What happened?" Hermione queried.

"It was my own fault, really. I'd had a miserable first trimester, but when I hit thirteen weeks, it was like flipping a switch. It was so nice not to feel sick and not to feel tired that I decided to play in a pick-up football game."

Ruefully, Katie shook her head at her own stupidity. "I guess it's a good thing I was kicked in the head rather than the stomach. I woke up in the hospital bed with Mark frantically asking if I knew who he was. As though I'd forget that!"

"When was that?" Hermione asked, feeling chilled despite the warmth of the little kitchen.

"End of February, 1999, on one of those unseasonably warm days that tricks you into thinking spring has arrived," came Katie's casual answer.

Hermione made a note to herself, and to tell Cho. The timing fit, as did the circumstances.

A series of loud thumps issued and Katie looked up in exasperation at the kitchen ceiling. "I don't know what they're doing up there to get Isabelle to go to sleep, but clearly it's not working. Do you mind?" she asked Hermione.

"Of course not." Hermione made her way up the stairs to a small back bedroom, painted pink with a border of featuring prancing unicorns. Isabelle was jumping on the bed, rather than tucked under the covers, and yelled at Hermione as she entered the room. "I'LL EAT YOU UP!"

She smiled at the miniature version of Katie and at the book in Mark's hand as she introduced herself. "Oh, are you a wild thing? I'm Hermione."

The little girl nodded with excitement. "I'm the queen of all wild things! We're having a wild rumpus! And I tamed them," she pointed to her father and Malcolm, "with the magic trick of staring at their eyes without blinking once! So now they have to listen to me."

Hermione laughed. "I'll have to give that one a try."

"You already have your own methods to get me to listen to you," her boyfriend murmured in her ear, looping two arms around her waist and planting a kiss on her neck.

"Yuck!" Isabelle cried, giggling and jumping higher. "You just kissed!"

Hermione disengaged herself from Malcolm and crossed to the well-stocked bookshelf to find a story more conducive to bedtime. "Would you like me to read this book to you?" she asked Isabelle, holding out an abridged version of one of her own childhood favorites.

"I want _you_ to read it," Isabelle insisted, looking at Malcolm with imploring eyes.

"Sure," he agreed easily, taking a seat at the edge of the bed, "I'll start reading as soon as you're under the covers."

"Daddy, tuck me in!" the little girl commanded.

Having done so, Mark joined Hermione in the doorway, propping himself against the frame. Malcolm began to read about a little boy's shabby toy rabbit, in a calming voice. After a few minutes, Isabelle's eyelids were drooping.

"'He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real - '" Malcolm read. Hermione smiled at one of her favorite lines.

"I can do nursery magic with my unicorn," Isabelle announced, eyes popping open.

Mark tensed and addressed his daughter with surprising firmness for such an indulgent father. "Not now, Isabelle. Wait until tomorrow when you're not so sleepy or you could hurt your unicorn."

The little girl pouted slightly, but her pout turned into a yawn as Malcolm continued to read to her, his blond hair bright even in the dim light cast by the bedside lamp. Hermione swallowed hard, not certain how she felt about that charming tableau. Her boyfriend was a complex person, and she wasn't naive enough to assume she knew everything about him, but she never had imagined he would be good with children.

"I think he has it under control," Mark whispered, ushering Hermione out of the room and following her down the stairs.

She stopped on the narrow landing to admire a collection of framed family photos. One snapshot in particular caught her eye, a picture of a younger Mark and Katie wearing matching black and white scarves, posing in front of a massive castle. The photo was so vivid that Hermione expected to see Katie's then-long hair blowing in the breeze.

"That's one of my favorite pictures," Mark said over her shoulder. "It was taken right after Katie and I became teammates, when she first started to see me as a person rather than an enemy."

Despite the reminiscent tone of his voice, Hermione was uncomfortably aware of him as a hulking presence behind her on the stairs. The thought crossed her mind that Mark easily could push her down the steps. But Malcolm's presence within easy calling distance reassured her enough to pose a question. "Where was the picture taken? It's a beautiful setting."

"Dunno. Somewhere in Scotland. Katie might remember." Mark's answer was innocuous enough, so much so that Hermione thought she might be imagining the underlying sly, dark humor.

"Let me get you something to drink," Mark suggested genially as they reached the bottom of the stairs, like a perfect host. "We have red wine, sparkling grape juice, which Katie swears is almost as good as the stuff with alcohol, water . . . "

"Red wine, please," Hermione requested.

Mark poured a generous glass of Chianti and handed it to her with a conspiratorial wink. "Looks like you're the only woman drinking. D'ya think Cho's joined Katie in the club?"

Hermione looked at Cho, sipping a large glass of sparkling water with her husband's arm draped over her shoulders, holding her close. "They've only been married a month," she protested weakly.

"Our Theo is very efficient," Mark smirked. "But very cautious. Even if she is preggers, they won't be telling us for a couple more months."

"Drake did a nice job with Isabelle, don't you think?" he inquired with seeming casualness. Mark went on without waiting for Hermione's answer to his loaded question. "He was a terrible, spoilt brat when he was younger, but I think he'll be a very good dad now that he's grown up."

"Maybe someday," Hermione agreed politely, despite her unease with the subject.

"Have you two talked about kids?" Mark asked, a wide smile displaying his crooked teeth.

"No, we're not that serious," Hermione muttered, grateful that her boyfriend was descending the stairs to rescue her from this awkward conversation.

"That's what you both think," Flint said to her back as Malfoy embraced her, too softly for them to hear.

**A/N: The children's books quoted above are Maurice Sendak's _Where_ _the_ _Wild Things Are_ and _The Velveteen Rabbit_, by Margery Williams. **


	20. Chapter 20: At Godric's Hollow

**A/N: Many thanks to those who read and especially warm thanks to those who reviewed the last chapter: Dawnaven, Aphrodite-Venus-u.k, dutch potterfan, dragonwingedangel, CharmQuest, surugasasa, eliza6801, Cat130, Grovek26, MrsRast, EmilyWoods, Calimocho, Rose Davis, PurebloodsDoItBetter, MDllikewhoa, 1019, IpreferJasper, latina-pr, ordinary vamp, and Colubrina. Much appreciated, as always!**

**_December 20, 2003_**

"Foggy conditions, wet pavement, and a narrow, twisty road - it all added up to a nasty accident. My car slid down the embankment and flipped. The doctors told me I was lucky to walk away with a concussion and bruises and cuts all over my body, even if I did lose some of my memories," Justin Finch-Fletchley concluded, his blue eyes solemn.

Three pairs of brown eyes regarded him with equal solemnity. Hermione's golden brown eyes were warm with compassion, Cho's almond-shaped brown eyes were dark with speculation, and Katie's chocolate-colored eyes were bright with tears.

"May I see your medical file?" Cho asked.

The curly-haired blond handed it over without comment. "Alright, Katie?" he asked his co-worker.

"Not really," she sniffled. "It just reminded me of what happened to my parents. I always get so emotional at this time of year, and the pregnancy hormones are _not_ helping!"

Justin wrapped a comforting arm around her. "Don't cry, lovely. You'll make your mascara run and Mark will chase me up a tree if he thinks I've been mean to you."

Hermione opened her mouth to ask about Katie's parents and then shut it in the face of the other woman's distress. She would phone Justin later for details, but it was just one more coincidence piled on top of the others that Katie's parents, like her own, had apparently died in an auto accident.

"Katie, you need retail therapy," Justin declared. "Do you remember Pansy? From Halloween? I'm meeting her at Oxford Street later to shop and you're coming with us. Would you two like to join us?" he politely invited Hermione and Cho.

Hermione shook her head, relieved to have a ready-made excuse to avoid bitchy Pansy. "We have a train to catch."

Cho closed the file, having finished her review. "Have you undergone any treatments to attempt to recover your memories?"

"I tried hypnosis," Justin said. "It was horrible!"

"What happened?" Hermione asked.

Cho looked like she was biting her tongue so as to not make a scathing comment, but Hermione was intrigued. Certainly hypnosis was not a standard medical prescription, but she could see how it might work.

Justin shuddered theatrically. "My overly active subconscious came up with all sorts of nonsense memories. A giant snake freezing me, people fighting with light sabers, giants, werewolves. Freud would have a field day! And the real memories weren't so great either."

"What did you remember?" Katie queried, patting his hand and returning his earlier sympathy.

"Just the usual sort of nasty adolescent bullying," Justin replied. "I didn't come out until after my accident - that was when I realized life was too short to pretend to be something I'm not - but it was fairly obvious even when I was at school that I was different. So some of the boys at school shoved me around at bit, or called me names. Finch-Faggot, Hufflepoof, that sort of thing."

"Do you have notes from your session with the hypnotist?" Cho clearly was doing her best to use a non-judgmental tone towards hypnosis. "I would be interested in reviewing those."

"I'll check with my psychiatrist and try to dig them up for you," Justin said.

"What in the world is a Hufflepoof?" Katie wrinkled her nose, but at least curiosity had overcome her prior sadness. "It sounds so silly!"

"The usual teen slang, I expect," Justin shrugged. "As I said, I've been called worse."

"Have you ever seen anyone who reminds you of the people you saw when you were under hypnosis?"

"Funny you should ask, Hermione," Justin said, looking directly at her. "Your boyfriend looks like the ringleader, all grown up."

A mischievous smile lit up his face. "In all honesty, that was why chatted him up so aggressively on Halloween. I normally wouldn't do that to a bloke who's not playing for my team, no matter how dishy, but it was too delicious to make him squirm! Payback can be a bitch, and so can I."

(x) (x) (x)

After saying their good-byes and wishing Justin and Katie a happy Christmas, Cho and Hermione hurried to Waterloo station to catch the next westbound train.

Although they made it with five minutes to spare, Hermione still was annoyed at Cho's insistence that they meet with Justin over lunch instead of earlier in the day. Even with no changes, the train still would take nearly three hours. Then there was the matter of hiring a car and driving to the little village of Godric's Hollow in the dark on one of the shortest days of the year, while still leaving themselves enough time to catch the last train back to London.

Hermione would have preferred not to travel to the West Country the night before her trip to Australia, but the timing had been dictated in part by her desire not to explain what probably sounded like a fools' errand to her boyfriend. As it so happened, Malcolm's company had their holiday party tonight, and he had apologetically informed her it was for employees only. Theo was making a dutiful visit to his father in Yorkshire for the weekend, so Cho was free as well, though she complained bitterly about having up take a colleague's shift on Christmas Eve to get off work and accompany Hermione.

The train wasn't especially crowded, and they had no trouble finding two seats together. "So, what did you think of Justin's story?" she asked Cho in a civil tone as soon as they were settled.

"It's the same patten," the other woman noted. "A solo 'accident' with no witnesses causing a head injury leading to memory loss. The only difference here is that Justin had some additional abrasions and contusions, severe enough to make it into his hospital report."

"Meaning what?" Hermione wasn't sure what Cho was getting at.

"Not much, from a medical perspective. From a practical point of view?" she shrugged. "Perhaps Justin, as a male, was more difficult to subdue."

"Ugh," Hermione said softly, disturbed at the grim possibilities. "You're wrong, though, about their being no witnesses. Mark saw Katie get hurt."

"So he says, but I wouldn't trust him, not with that _thing_ branded on his arm," Cho returned. "What did you think about Justin recognizing your boyfriend?"

"He didn't recognize him, not really," Hermione protested. "Malcolm claims he has an evil twin."

"Or maybe he's just evil," Cho said quietly.

"That's not funny," Hermione snapped.

"Was I laughing?" Cho rejoined.

Hermione opened her mouth to defend her boyfriend, but Cho had turned away, effectively ending the conversation. "Wake me when we get to Yeovil Junction," she requested, leaning back against the seat and closing her eyes.

(x) (x) (x)

By the time they reached Godric's Hollow, Hermione deeply regretted ever inviting Cho along. She was a positively miserable traveling companion, and, being London-born and raised, was little help in deciphering rural signposts. She also insisted in cracking open the windows in their hired car, despite the December chill, to keep from becoming motion sick. With Mark's speculation about Cho's pregnancy fresh in her mind, Hermione bit her tongue and drove through the twilight and evening darkness in shivering silence.

Her irritation vanished on the walk from the car park to the village center, replaced by a strong and almost ominous sense of recognition. She had been here before, and it hadn't ended well. Still, the village itself was charming, with a little stone church, a pub, and a few other shops clustered around the town square and two lanes of cottages extending down little lanes in opposite directions. On this Saturday evening, the pub was lively while the church was quiet and dark, but Hermione could picture the latter's stained glass windows glowing like jewels when services were held.

"Can you imagine how this would look in the snow?" Cho asked, gesturing at the quaint buildings with their holiday decorations.

"Easily," Hermione said, wondering whether the picture in her mind was imagination or a memory. "It's very pretty."

As they crossed in front of the square, Hermione stared intently at the stone obelisk, the village's memorial to its dead in two world wars. No matter how she looked, or from what angle, the stone remained unchanged.

"Are we visiting Harry's grave or aren't we?" Cho demanded impatiently.

Hermione tore herself aware from the memorial and, with unerring steps, led Cho around the back of the church and through the kissing gate into the graveyard. Both women had come prepared with pocket flashlights, but while Cho scanned the headstones systematically, Hermione made her way to the back corner. "Over here," she called softly.

There were two white tombstones, one shared between Lily and James Potter and a smaller one to mark Harry's final resting place. Cho knelt before the former. "They were so young," she breathed.

"Harry was even younger," Hermione sadly agreed. His marker was a simple one, with his name and the dates of his birth and death, a mere eighteen years and scant months later. There was an oddity in the form of a third date and notation: "2 May 1998 - Triumphed."

Reaching into her carrier bag, Hermione pulled out a holly wreath and added it to the collection of flowers and presents at the grave. "Does that date mean anything to you?"

Cho briefly shook her head, laying down her bouquet of white roses and red carnations between the headstones. "It seems like it should, but it doesn't. I saw that same date on several other headstones, though." She traced the Potters' epitaph with her fingers. "'The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.' I fear they had more concrete enemies to contend with."

Rather than answering, Hermione knelt at Harry's grave. She had hoped the visit would bring her a sense of peace, or at least closeness to what remained of her brother in all but blood, but she merely felt empty. There was no comfort for her in this cemetery, but maybe there were answers.

She began sifting through the litter of Christmas cards and dying flowers, adorning Harry's grave, making occasional notes of names while ignoring Cho's hissed and scandalized protests. Clearly, Harry was a celebrity even in death.

A child's drawing caught her eye. A woman with carroty-red hair was holding a little boy's hand as they watched a man flying high in the sky on a broomstick. Despite the sadness imbued in the graveyard, Hermione smiled that Jamie had used an orange crayon to depict Ginny's hair color. The little boy and the man had matching mussed black hair, and there were round circles around the man's eyes.

"Look, Cho," she urged. "It's a picture of Harry up in the sky."

"It's a very good effort for a four-year-old," her companion observed.

"His stepdad is artistic. Perhaps he helped?" Hermione fervently hoped so, that little Jamie had a loving father figure in his life. And she knew that Ginny, despite her irksome shortcomings as a friend, would be an excellent mother.

"Mmmm," Cho hummed in agreement. "I wonder why they're all holding sticks in their hands. Odd, too, that the paper hasn't been damaged by the damp."

"Perhaps they were here just this afternoon," Hermione suggested.

Cho looked at the pristine paper, bizarrely impervious to the elements, but dropped the subject. "Now, are you quite finished with your rummaging?"

"Quite," Hermione said, looking at her notebook. She would try to collate this in some sensible fashion on her long plane flight. "The ruins of the Potters' cottage are down this way, I think, if you'd like to see them," Hermione said, pointing down the lane into the darkness.

"I would like that," Cho agreed quietly. "I've lost every memory I ever had of Harry, but they couldn't make me forget what a good person he was.

(x) (x) (x)

At the station cafe, Cho and Hermione sipped bowls of watery vegetable soup in a subdued, emotionally drained silence as they waited for the last train to London. They had tromped up and down the village lanes, and even asked a villager for assistance, but frustratingly had been unable to locate any sign of the ruined cottage.

Hermione absently rubbed the heel of her hand against her forehead, grateful that the migraine had held off while she was driving.

"Headache?" Cho asked, with surprising sympathy.

"It's perpetual these days," Hermione confirmed. "I thought it was stress-related, with the end of term and my applications, but it hasn't let up."

She stifled a yawn. "I hate this time of year. The lack of daylight makes me so sleepy."

"I've been tired as well," Cho nodded, regarding Hermione with a clinical sort of detachment. Then she asked a question that turned Hermione's world upside-down.


	21. Chapter 21: The Purebloods Have a Ball

**A/N: Apologies for the cliffy, and my thanks to those who reviewed and/or guessed at Cho's question. Deator 11, rebelsaurus29, Lady Gothitelle, Calimocho, surugasasa, Guest, Guest, sadevotchka, dutch potterfan, Guest, tooyaluvr, Matt (Pansy's plot to make Justin a "breeding mule" is revealed and shot down & H did tell C what G said about K), dragonwingedangel, Colubrina, Rose Davis, Aphrodite-Venus-u.k, latefebruary, Apple77, IpreferJasper, dramione101, FaeBreeze, Grovek26, KeepCalmBePositive, ASJS, MrsRast, Dawnaven, annaea3077, Guest, sarah, Claradeana, v-x-y-zz, SephyBurden, Larry Lipshitz, and cocis - Hopefully I haven't made you all wait too long to find out! **

**Trigger warnings: the cliffhanger gets resolved, and some of you will be irked. In addition, as the title indicates, this chapter is primarily set at the Malfoys' Yuletide ball, and the attitude of the pureblood elite towards Muggleborns is offensive in multiple respects. Finally, there is a non-explicit sexual scene at the end, which could be considered dub-con for the standard reasons that apply in this story. **

**_December 20, 2003_**

Draco gave one last look in the mirror, smoothing his hair and removing an invisible speck of lint from his dress robes. A frown crossed his face as his wife walked into his bedroom at the Manor uninvited.

"Why aren't you wearing the emerald and diamond cufflinks I bought you for your birthday?" Astoria asked, in a tone that managed to be whiny and accusing at the same time.

"Because I prefer these," he answered shortly. The silver cufflinks with the carved jade dragons were his favorite of the Christmas presents he'd received from Hermione. They had exchanged gifts early, since she had a flight to Australia tomorrow and his parents were hosting a Yuletide ball tonight.

"Are those a gift from some Muggle slut?" Astoria asked rudely.

"Wrong as usual, Tori," Draco said in a cold tone, hoping to avert a hysterical scene. He held one sleeve out for inspection so that Astoria could detect the old magic imbued in the jewelry. It was minor stuff - a charm to keep the pair from being separated and a jinx to tarnish the silver if touched by Muggle hands - but it was still intriguing that Granger had managed to find them among the Muggle trinkets for sale at the Portobello Road market.

"These are a Black family heirloom." Draco lied easily.

"Oh," Astoria responded, temporarily at a loss for words. That happy state persisted only for a moment. "You've still been neglecting me shamefully, Draco. You're cheating on me, aren't you?"

His mother swept into the bedroom, resplendent in icy blue dress robes to match her eyes and demeanor.

"Astoria, a well-bred witch should never accuse her husband of infidelity. The preservation of domestic harmony should be her utmost goal," Narcissa scolded. "Particularly as we are minutes away from welcoming guests into our home. This is not the time or the place for one of your tantrums."

Astoria pouted, but had learned through repetition not to argue. "Yes, mama-in-law," she said obediently.

"Now, darling, why don't you run along to the kitchens and make sure the house elves have properly plated the hors d'oeuvres?" the blond witch sweetly requested.

Astoria removed herself in response to Narcissa's thinly-veiled command, leaving mother and son alone for a brief chat.

"I would hex your father's nose off if he treated me like you treat Astoria," Narcissa observed.

Draco remained mum and kept his face carefully blank. His father had not gained his position as one of the Dark Lord's top lieutenants by remaining on the sidelines at the Death Eaters' revels, but he wasn't going to be the one to shatter his mother's illusions.

Narcissa curled her lip at his transparency. "I'm not referring to whatever physical release Lucius obtains from those of inferior blood, Draco. Boys will be boys, after all."

He raised an eyebrow at that, as his mother continued her lecture. "You've essentially abandoned your wife - your entire family - to live as a Muggle for these last few months. I do hope you have something to show for that?"

Draco ignored the question, electing to address Narcissa's broader complaint. "You said it yourself, mum. Granger isn't just entertainment at a Dark revel. She also isn't just a casual shag in the Muggle world. If you want me to have an heir, you're going to have to accept that I'm in a relationship with her."

"You're pretending to be in a relationship with her," Narcissa snapped.

"Semantics," Draco shrugged. Then, deciding if he was in for a Knut, he might as well be in for Galleon, he casually broached a request that was likely to make his mother tear out her perfectly coifed hair. "She'd like to meet you the next time you're in London."

"No," Narcissa flatly refused. "I've met her before and neither occasion was a pleasant one, for either of us. I have no wish to see Miss Granger again and I can't imagine she would disagree if she remembered our prior interactions."

"Please, Mother," Draco cajoled. "She doesn't remember, and in the Muggle world, we've been dating long enough for her to reasonably expect to meet at least one of my parents."

"What did you tell her about your father?" Narcissa asked shrewdly.

"That I wouldn't subject her to Lucius, because he's still intent on having me reconcile with my unfaithful ex-girlfriend," Draco glibly recited.

"You've been disturbingly forthcoming with the Granger girl," his mother noted, a slight frown knitting her brows. "I hope she hasn't managed to get her claws into you the way Katie Bell has done with Lucretia's son. It's a pity Marcus's firstborn was a daughter and he had to stay with her for years to try again for his son."

Draco did not waste his breath trying to correct her absurd misapprehensions regarding Katie. Instead, he gave his mother his most appealing look, designed to remind her that he was still her little boy despite being all grown up.

"Fine, I'll meet with her," Narcissa sighed. "But I hope your little sojourn into the Muggle world will prove to be fruitful - and soon."

(x) (x) (x)

"Your mother has managed to pull off the social event of the season, yet again," Pansy commented, as Draco waltzed her around the room, their steps perfectly in sync.

"She always does," he agreed.

Pansy scanned the ballroom with bright eyes, but her commentary was wistful rather than malicious as he had expected. "Marcus's little girl is adorable."

"She's cute," Draco concurred. Isabelle was dancing with her father, giggling as he spun her around.

"Though I can't believe Lucretia let her wear a dress that color!" Now the claws were out.

"Red is a holiday color," Draco said with deliberate indifference. "Besides," he grinned, "Flint told me she lay down on the floor at Twilfitt and Tatting's and threw a fit until her grandmother got the dress robes in a color she wanted."

Pansy sniffed, but couldn't hide a smile. "Do you remember the first Yule ball where we danced?" she asked, oddly nostalgic.

"Of course, Pans," he rolled his eyes. "Hogwarts, fourth year, and you wore a dress that made you like a pink Pygmy puff."

Pansy looked mildly affronted. "It did not! And I'm amazed you even remember what my dress looked like, given where your eyes were that night!"

Draco wisely let that pass, deciding some distraction was in order. Pansy had kept quiet about seeing him with Granger on Halloween, but there was no guarantee of her continued discretion. "I like your necklace, Pans."

"Staring at my cleavage, are you?" Pansy smirked. "Justin helped me pick out the necklace and my gown. Said the design would draw attention to the girls."

He ignored the unfounded accusation, though her dress _was_ eye-catchingly low-cut. "So what are you doing with the Hufflepoof?" he asked.

"Much the same as you are with Granger, I expect."

Draco raised a skeptical eyebrow. Given Finch-Fletchley's proclivities, he highly, _highly_ doubted that was the case.

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Draco! I'm not referring to whatever disgusting sexual acts you've trained your bushy-haired Mudblood bitch to perform," she clarified.

"Watch it, Pansy," he warned.

"Oh, fine!" she huffed. "Be that way about your Muggleborn! I want the same thing from Justin that you want from Granger: a baby. And one who isn't a Squib, like Greg's poor little girl. Urquhart can't give me that, but Justin might." Pansy's expression soured as she mentioned her husband.

Draco shook his head regretfully. "Pans, I hate to break it to you, but Finch-Fletchley is bent. He's just not into you, or any woman."

"I know! That's why I was hoping you'd let me take a hair or two." Pansy opened her eyes wide, in a pleading expression. "For Polyjuice potion."

"No fucking way!" he cried.

"Please, Draco?" she cajoled. "For me? As my Yuletide present?"

"Abso-_fucking_-lutely not, Pans! And stop running your fingers through my hair. You're not going to sneak a strand that way."

Pansy pouted and Draco shook his head at the daft bint.

She tried another tactic. "You owe me, Draco. I haven't breathed a word to anyone about you and Granger. It's just one tiny little hair."

"It's not going to work, Pans," he said, referring to both her attempt at blackmail and half-baked plan to seduce Justin. "Unless I'm wrong, your honey badger is a Keeper rather than a Chaser. Even if you transform into me and trick him into sex, a dick up his arse isn't going to get you pregnant."

Pansy looked nonplussed at his crudity.

"Why don't you just ask him to wank off at a clinic and donate his swimmers to you?" Draco suggested.

"You can do that?" Pansy asked, incredulous.

"Yeah, Muggles have clinics that specialize in it. Ask Theo for details - he's the Muggle expert. They even do it at St. Mungo's. I'm surprised your Healer never mentioned it," he told her."

Pansy smiled bitterly. "Urquhart believes having babies is a natural process, and won't try anything other than drinking virility potions - his family's secret recipe - or making me drink vile-tasting fertility potions. After nearly four years and no pregnancies, I can safely say those potions work for bugger-all."

"Talk to the Finch-Fucker," Draco urged. "Tell him the truth - you want a baby, your husband can't get you pregnant, and you think his genes and yours would make for an amazing kid. He seems like a nice enough bloke. He'll say yes."

"You really think so?" Pansy asked, eager at the possibility.

"Sure. And if he refuses, you'll Imperius the poor bastard to make him do whatever you want."

(x) (x) (x)

A few hours later, Draco excused himself from the dance floor in favor of the exclusively masculine company in the billiard room. He needed to have a word with Antonin Dolohov, now that his fellow Death Eater had imbibed enough vodka to loosen his tongue.

The earlier conversation with his mother had heightened Draco's growing concern that Hermione wasn't yet pregnant, despite his best efforts to make her so. The morning after Halloween, he had been hopeful her vomiting was morning sickness, but she hadn't been ill since.

Several nights before, when exploring her body most thoroughly with his tongue, he had come across a star-shaped scar under her right breast, with a tail like a comet running down to her ribcage. And he remembered that Dolohov had cursed Granger, and that she had spent the last weeks of their fifth year recovering in the Hogwarts infirmary. Draco needed to find out what that curse was and whether it had impaired her fertility.

The conversation in the billiard room easily was turned in the direction of reminiscences about past Dark hexes and curses inflicted upon Muggles and Muggleborns. In the past, Cho certainly would have been discussed gloatingly, but Nott Sr.'s glowering presence with a pool cue in hand ensured there was no mention of the newly minted Madam Nott.

Flint, freshly returned from taking a drowsy Isabelle to his parents' home by Floo, responded to Draco's elbow to the ribs as his cue. "Antonin has the best hex - those fucking purple flames! I saw you at the battle at Hogwarts, mowing people down with that," he said with admiration.

The Russian wizard smiled at the flattery, lighting up his twisted face. "Ah, yes. The _shashka_ curse. I learnt it at Durmstrang. A pity there is so little occasion to cast it these days."

"Do the flames burn?" Flint asked ingenuously.

"_Nyet_, _nyet_," Dolohov shook his head. "It is like your _diffindo_, but reaches a greater depth and causes more harm. Like sticking in a long knife and twisting." He mimed the motion for his audience, and Draco dug his fingers into his palms until the urge to twist Dolohov's scrawny neck in the same way passed. His mother would be most displeased if he throttled one of their guests. Still, as angry as he was on Granger's behalf, he also was relieved. That type of curse should have no lingering effects.

He noticed Theo standing in the doorway, a stiff drink in hand and an anxious expression on his face. He jerked his head towards the terrace in a clear request for a private conversation. After casting a warming charm, Draco casually made his way outside, grabbing a couple of cigars on the way as a fig leaf for their conversation outside in the freezing cold.

"I just got off the phone with Cho," Theo began without preamble. "Do you know where she and Granger were?" he demanded.

Draco had a sinking feeling that Theo was about to tell him and he wouldn't like the answer. "Hermione told me they were meeting for lunch and doing some last-minute Christmas shopping," he offered.

"Perhaps you'll find a Chosen One memorial snow globe in your stocking, then," Theo said sarcastically. "Cho was an emotional wreck after your girlfriend took her to Godric's Hollow to visit Potter's grave."

"Oh, fuck," Draco said eloquently.

"It's bad enough that you couldn't Obliviate Granger properly, and even worse that you have no control over her," Theo fumed, "but it's completely unacceptable that she's dragged Cho into her little schemes!"

"Your wife isn't exactly a fragile flower, Theo. And Hermione wouldn't take her anywhere unless Cho asked to come along," Draco disputed. "As for how well I Obliviated her, you of all people should appreciate how fucking difficult that spell is to pull off." He didn't even bother to refute the lack of control he had over Hermione, as there was nothing he could say.

"Cho is rather emotionally fragile at the moment, and I don't need her sobbing over her dead ex-boyfriend." Theo took off his spectacles and polished them, always an indicator that he was distressed.

"Did Cho say what they saw at Godric's Hollow?" Draco asked, worried that he might have to try and explain away magic to his clever little girlfriend. "And how did you get your mobile to work within the Manor's wards?"

"You have a null spot where the house wards end and the wards on the grounds begin. Right at the edge of the terrace," Theo pointed vaguely, putting his glasses back on. "Cho was crying too hard for me to make sense of what she was saying."

A prickle of unease crept up Draco's spine. He had always thought that a wand was needed at Godric's Hollow to see the Potter memorial and cottage, but Granger had been quite adept at wandless magic.

He walked to the terrace's boundary to check his mobile. As Theo had said, he had service, along with a voicemail and two missed calls from Hermione. His sense of unease grew: she was not a clingy girlfriend, and three calls from her in the space of an hour was unheard of.

Draco checked his voicemail and heard Hermione's voice. "Hi, it's me. Please give me a call after your company's party. It doesn't matter how late. I really need to speak with you. Bye." The characteristic bossiness almost would have made him smile, but for the carefully controlled tone and faint hitch before the recording ended, as though she were choking back a sob. _That_ had him striding for the terrace doors, to hastily make his excuses and say his farewells.

(x) (x) (x)

After his quick departure from the Yuletide ball, Draco Apparated to a back alley near Hermione's flat.

She had gifted him with a key earlier in the month, so he let himself in and swiftly ascended to the third floor. With the cautious instincts instilled by surviving a war and the Dark Lord as a house guest, he stopped just inside the door, stepping around her packed suitcase and backpack, and listened. He could hear Hermione's even breathing from the couch, but nothing else.

She stirred as he made his way across the room to her. "Draco? Is that you?"

As always, it startled him slightly to hear his real name on her lips. Her voice was thick with tears, and his wrist itched as he realized she'd cried herself to sleep. "It's me," he confirmed, kneeling beside the couch and stroking her hair. "I tried calling you back, but you didn't pick up. What's the matter, lovely?"

"I had dinner with Cho, and she - " Hermione's voice broke off and she began to sniffle.

"What did she do?" Draco asked, his gentle tone at odds with his raging thoughts. Vow or no Vow, if Theo's icy bitch of a wife had hurt Granger, she would have him to contend with.

"She didn't do anything," Hermione said, sitting up and irritably swiping tears off her face. "I had a wretched headache and mentioned how tired I had been all month, thinking to ask her about mononucleosis."

Draco nodded. He had noticed Granger's migraines and had the goblin jewelers imbue the miniature dragon now adorning her bracelet with a strong charm for good health as one of her Yuletide/Christmas gifts. "Is it anything serious?"

At her renewed crying, Draco tightened his arm around her shoulder, fearing the worst. Perhaps terminal brain cancer, due to her Muggle heritage.

"Cho asked me if - if I might be pregnant, and when I last had my monthly. And I, I realized I was a week late," Hermione stuttered through her tears.

"Oh," Draco said slowly, drawing out the syllable. "Do you want to go the hospital tonight for a test?"

Granger gave him a strange look, and Draco realized this must be one of the areas in which Muggle and wizarding healthcare differed. He knew a basic charm to confirm pregnancy - not that he was going to whip out his wand and perform it on his Obliviated girlfriend - but he and Astoria always went to St. Mungo's right away so the Healers could cast more sophisticated diagnostic charms to tell them the due date and gender and start Astoria on a regimen of prenatal potions.

"I already bought the tests at Boots. Three different ones, and they all came up positive," Hermione told him. "I'm not going to get a different result by going to a hospital, if that's what you were hoping for."

Draco wisely bypassed the loaded comment. "How are you feeling?"

"Like complete and utter shite. And I have no idea how this happened, when I've always been so careful, or what I'm going to do with it! I don't even know how far along I am." Granger started to sob again, and shrugged his arm off her shoulders.

"Hey, calm down. It'll be alright," Draco attempted to comfort her. He knew the words were a mistake as soon as they left his mouth.

She rounded on him, her hair practically crackling with anger. "That's easy enough for you to say! You can just walk away, while I'm stuck dealing with the consequences."

"I'm not going to walk away," he told her firmly. "Not when the baby is half mine."

"Half _what_?" Granger asked sharply.

"Half _mine_," he emphasized. She narrowed her eyes, and Draco wondered if she was angered at his claim or whether the phrase "half blood" was running through her mind.

He hurried on, hoping to distract her from any subconscious mulling over blood status. "I know you have the right to decide whether to terminate your pregnancy, but I hope you'll take my wishes into account. And I want this baby."

Draco tried to pull off a wandless compulsion charm as he spoke, but from the stubborn look on Granger's face, he was doubtful he had succeeded. As a back-up plan, he appealed to her sense of fair play. "Please, Hermione. Please don't make any decisions without consulting me. Think about what you want to do when you're in Australia, talk to your godparents, and talk with me when you come back. Promise?"

"Promise," she agreed grudgingly. Her amber-colored eyes caught and held his. "You seem almost . . . _happy _about this," she said suspiciously.

"Happy isn't the right word," Draco shook his head. Thrilled, ecstatic, overjoyed - those were all closer to the mark. He wrapped his arm back around her shoulders. This time, she let him.

"I'm terrified," Hermione admitted softly, her cheek against his chest.

"Me, too," he whispered against her hair. Though he suspected she was terrified of having a baby, while he was terrified of losing it.

She tipped her face up and he kissed her softly, gently, almost reverently, giving her the comfort and distraction she needed. Gradually, her mouth grew greedy and her hands began to wander, and he responded in kind, until their naked bodies were intertwined on the sofa. Hermione eagerly parted her thighs and he slid into her warm, willing body with far more care than usual. Draco laced the fingers of one hand through hers, using his other arm to brace himself, to keep the bulk of his weight off hers as his body moved on top of hers, pressing her down on the cushions. They rocked and thrust together in an age-old rhythm, their cadence slower and less urgent than usual.

Draco had fucked Hermione dozens of times before, but realized this was different: this was the first time he was making love.

(x) (x) (x)

Later, when Hermione was deeply asleep, Draco picked her up and carried her to the lilac small bedroom. After tucking her in and checking the alarm was set early enough to get to Heathrow, he retrieved his wand. Standing over the bed, he quietly mimicked the wand motion he had seen from the Healers at St. Mungo's. Quite simply, he did not trust Muggle tests.

"_Foetus revelio_," he recited. A golden glow blanketed Granger's sleeping body and coalesced low in her abdomen, pulsing rapidly in time with his unborn child's heartbeat. It had been months since he had seen that charm cast on Astoria, but he was fairly certain the glow was brighter than he had ever seen with his wife's pregnancies.

He slid under the covers, reaching an arm around Granger's body to mold her to him. With the palm of his hand placed flat beneath her belly button, Draco drifted off to sleep smiling at the unexpected Yuletide present, the best gift Hermione - no matter how reluctantly - could possibly have given him.

**A/N: This is a busy time of year, so I may not be as diligent in responding to reviews, as much as I love and appreciate them. Also, while I hope to update once more in 2014, I make no promises. Don't worry, though - I am having too much fun with this story to abandon it!**


End file.
